The Golden Scarecrow | Page 6

only people who

can know anything about it. You people never use your imaginations."
"Nevertheless," said Mr. Lasher, very bitterly (for he had always said,
"If one does not bring one's imagination into one's work one's work is
of no value"), "writers of idle tales are not the only people who use
their imaginations. And, if you will allow me, without offence, to say
so, Pidgen, your books, even amongst other things of the same sort,
have not been the most successful."
This remark seemed to pour water upon all the anger in Mr. Pidgen's
heart. His eyes expressed scorn, but not now for Mr. Lasher--for
himself. His whole figure drooped and was bowed like a robin in a
thunderstorm.
"That's true enough. Bless my soul, Lasher, that's true enough. They
hardly sell at all. I've written a dozen of them now, 'The Blue Pouncet
Box,' 'The Three-tailed Griffin,' 'The Tree without any Branches,' but
you won't want to be bothered with the names of them. 'The Griffin'
went into two editions, but it was only because the pictures were rather
sentimental. I've often said to myself, 'If a thing doesn't sell in these
days it must be good,' but I've not really convinced myself. I'd like
them to have sold. Always, until now, I've had hopes of the next one,
and thought that it would turn out better, like a woman with her babies.
I seem to have given up expecting that now. It isn't, you know, being
always hard-up that I mind so much, although that, mind you, isn't
pleasant, no, by Jehoshaphat, it isn't. But we would like now and again
to find that other people have enjoyed what one hoped they would
enjoy. But I don't know, they always seem too old for children and too
young for grown-ups--my stories, I mean."
It was one of the hardest traits in Mr. Lasher's character, as Hugh well
realised, "to rub it in" over a fallen foe. He considered this his duty; it
was also, I am afraid, a pleasure. "It's a pity," he said, "that things
should not have gone better; but there are so many writers to-day that I
wonder any one writes at all. We live in a practical, realistic age. The
leaders amongst us have decided that every man must gird his loins and
go out to fight his battles with real weapons in a real cause, not sit
dreaming at his windows looking down upon the busy market-place."

(Mr. Lasher loved what he called "images." There were many in his
sermons.) "But, my dear Pidgen, it is in no way too late. Give up your
fairy stories now that they have been proved a failure."
Here Mr. Pidgen, in the most astonishing way, was suddenly in a
terrible temper. "They're not!" he almost screamed. "Not at all. Failures,
from the worldly point of view, yes; but there are some who understand.
I would not have done anything else if I could. You, Lasher, with your
soup-tickets and your choir-treats, think there's no room for me and my
fairy stories. I tell you, you may find yourself jolly well mistaken one
of these days. Yes, by Cæsar, you may. How do you know what's best
worth doing? If you'd listened a little more to the things you were told
when you were a baby, you'd be a more intelligent man now."
"When I was a baby," said Mr. Lasher, incredulously, as though that
were a thing that he never possibly could have been, "my dear Pidgen!"
"Ah, you think it absurd," said the other, a little cooler again. "But how
do you know who watched over your early years and wanted you to be
a dreamy, fairy tale kind of person instead of the cayenne pepper sort of
man you are. There's always some one there, I tell you, and you can
have your choice, whether you'll believe more than you see all your life
or less than you see. Every baby knows about it; then, as they grow
older, it fades and, with many people, goes altogether. He's never left
me, St. Christopher, you know, and that's one thing. Of course, the ideal
thing is somewhere between the two; recognise St. Christopher and see
the real world as well. I'm afraid neither you nor I is the ideal man,
Lasher. Why, I tell you, any baby of three knows more than you do!
You're proud of never seeing beyond your nose. I'm proud of never
seeing my nose at all: we're both wrong. But I am ready to admit your
uses. You never will admit mine; and it isn't any use your denying my
Friend. He stayed with you a bit when you just arrived, but I expect he
soon left you. You're jolly glad