78 THE SOUTH COUNTRY 



once for a week I had the company of a black-and-white 

 pigeon. It sat day after day in a hole in the opposite 

 wall until it died and fell on to the paved yard below. 

 The clouds sailed over the top of the pit. Sea-gulls flew 

 over, all golden-winged, in October afternoons. I liked 

 the fog when all the lights were lit, and though we 

 did not know one another in the pit we seemed to keep 

 one another company. But I liked the rain best of all. 

 It used to splash down from all sides and make a country 

 noise, and I looked up and saw the quaint cowls sitting 

 like cats on the chimney-pots, and had ridiculous fancies 

 that took me far away for a second or two. 



" The worst time of all was two or three years after 

 my father's death. I spent most of my poor earnings 

 on clothes; I took the trouble to talk and smoke and 

 think as much as possible like the other nine young 

 men in the railway carriage that took me into the city; 

 I learned their horrible, cowardly scorn for those who 

 were poor or outlandish, and for all things that were not 

 like those in their own houses or in those of the richer 

 people of their acquaintance or envy. We were slaves, 

 and we gilded our collars." 



" But the journalist and hack writer," said I, " is worse 

 off. At least your master only asked for your dregs. 

 The hack writer is asked to give everything that can be 

 turned into words at short notice, and so the collar round 

 his neck is never taken off as yours was between six in 

 the afternoon and nine in the morning." 



" Ah, but it is open to you to do good or bad. We 

 could only do bad. All day we were doing things which 

 we did not understand, which could not in any way con- 



