Then he made his confession guiltily.

I was not to suppose that his aims ceased with the attainment of a
tomato-farm. The nurture of a wholesome vegetable occupied neither the
whole of his ambitions nor even the greater part of them. To write--the
agony with which he throatily confessed it!--to be swept into the
maelstrom of literary journalism, to be _en rapport_ with the
unslumbering forces of Fleet Street--those were the real objectives of
James Orlebar Cloyster.

"Of course, I mean," he said, "I suppose it would be a bit of a
struggle at first, if you see what I mean. What I mean to say is,
rejected manuscripts, and so on. But still, after a bit, once get a
footing, you know--I should like to have a dash at it. I mean, I think
I could do something, you know."

"Of course you could," I said.

"I mean, lots of men have, don't you know."

"There's plenty of room at the top," I said.

He seemed struck with this remark. It encouraged him.

He had had his opportunity of talking thus of himself during our long
rambles out of doors. They were a series of excursions which he was
accustomed to describe as hunting expeditions for the stocking of our
larder.