The bells of St Bride's chimed unheard in the customary afternoon din of the Megalopolitan Building. The country edition had gone to bed; below traffic-level, in grotto-blue light, leagues of paper ran noisily through the machines; overhead, where floor upon floor rose from the dusks of the streets to the clear air of day, ground-glass doors opened and shut; figures in frayed and perished braces popped in and out; on a hundred lines reporters talked at cross purposes; sub-editors busied themselves with their humdrum task of reducing to blank nonsense the sheaves of misinformation which whistling urchins piled before them; beside a hundred typewriters soggy biscuits lay in a hundred tepid saucers. At the hub and still centre of all this animation, Lord Copper sat alone in splendid tranquillity. His massive head, empty of thought, rested in sculptural fashion upon his left fist. He began to draw a little cow on his writing pad.

Four legs with cloven feet, a ropy tail, swelling udder and modestly diminished teats, a chest and head like an Elgin marble--all this was straightforward stuff. Then came the problem--which was the higher, horns or ears? He tried it one way, he tried it the other; both looked equally unconvincing; he tried different types of ear--tiny, feline triangles, asinine tufts of hair and gristle, even, in desperation, drooping flaps remembered from a guinea-pig in the backyard of his earliest home; he tried different types of horn--royals, the elegant antennae of the ibex, the vast armoury of moose and buffalo. Soon the paper before him was covered like the hall of a hunter with freakish heads. None looked right. He brooded over them and found no satisfaction.

It was thus that Mr Salter found him.

Mr Salter had not wanted to come and see Lord Copper. He had nothing particular to say. He had not been summoned. But he had the right of entry to his owner's presence, and it was only thus, he believed, by unremitting wholly uncongenial self-assertion, that he could ever hope for a change of job.

'I wanted to consult you about Bucharest,' he said.

'Ah.'

'There's a long story from Jepson about a pogrom. Have we any policy in Bucharest?'

Lord Copper roused himself from his abstraction. 'Someone on this paper must know about cows,' he said petulantly.

'Cows, Lord Copper?'

'Don't we keep a man to write about the country?'

'Oh. That was Boot, Lord Copper.'

'Well have him come and see me.'

'We sent him to Africa.'

'Well have him come back. What's he doing there? Who sent him?'

'He is on his way back now. It was Boot who brought off the great story in Ishmaelia. When we scooped Hitchcock,' he added, for Lord Copper was frowning in a menacing way.

Slowly the noble face lightened.

'Ah, yes, smart fellow, Boot. He was the right man for that job.'

'It was you who discovered him, Lord Copper.'

'Of course, naturally... had my eye on him for some time. Glad he made good. There's always a chance for real talent on the Beast, eh, Salter?'

'Definitely, Lord Copper.'

'Preparations going ahead for Boot's reception?'

'Up to a point.'

'Let me see, what was it we decided to do for him?'

'I don't think, Lord Copper, that the question was ever actually raised.'

'Nonsense. It is a matter I have particularly at heart. Boot has done admirably. He is an example to everyone on the staff--everyone. I wish to show my appreciation in a marked manner. When do you say he gets back?'

'At the end of next week.'

'I will thank him personally... You never had any faith in that boy, Salter.'

'Well...'

'I remember it quite distinctly. You wished to have him recalled. But I knew he had the makings of a journalist in him. Was I right?'

'Oh, definitely, Lord Copper.'

'Well then, let us have no more of these petty jealousies. The office is riddled with them. I shall make it my concern to see that Boot is substantially rewarded... What, I wonder, would meet the case?...' Lord Copper paused undecided. His eye fell on the page of drawings and he covered it with his blotting paper. 'Suppose,' he said at length, 'we gave him another good foreign assignment. There is this all-women expedition to the South Pole--bound to be a story in that. Do you think that would meet the case?'

'Up to a point, Lord Copper.'

'Not too lavish?'

'Definitely not.'

'I imagine that the expenses of an expedition of that kind will be heavy. Have to charter his own ship--I understand they will have no man on board.' He paused, dissatisfied. 'The trouble is that it is the kind of story that may not break for two years and then we shall have to put Boot's name before the public all over again. We ought to do something now, while the news is still hot. I gave that illiterate fellow Hitchcock a knighthood for less.' For the first time since the question of the cow had risen to perplex him, Lord Copper smiled. 'We certainly wiped Hitchcock's eye in Ishmaelia.' He paused, and his smile broadened as he recalled the triumph of ten days ago when the Brute had had to remake their front page at seven in the morning and fill a special late edition with a palpable fake.

'I don't want to cheapen official honours among the staff,' he said, 'but I have a very good mind to give a knighthood to Boot. How does that strike you, Salter?'

'You don't think, Lord Copper, that he is rather an inexperienced man...?'

'No, I don't. And I deplore this grudging attitude in you, Salter. You should welcome the success of your subordinates. A knighthood is a very suitable recognition. It will not cost us a penny. As I say, honours of this kind must be distributed with discretion but, properly used, they give a proper air of authority to the paper.'

'It will mean an increase of salary.'

'He shall have it. And he shall have a banquet. Send my social secretary to me. I will make the arrangements at once.'

****

No. 10 Downing Street was understaffed; the principal private secretary was in Scotland; the second secretary was on the Lido; Parliament was in vacation but there was no rest for the Prime Minister; he was obliged to muddle along, as best he could, with his third and fourth secretaries--unreliable young men related to his wife.

'Another name for the K.C.B.s,' he said petulantly. 'Boot--gratis.'

'Yes, Uncle Mervyn. Are you--we giving any particular reason?'

'It's someone of Copper's. Call it "Services to Literature". It's some time since Copper asked for anything--I was getting nervous. I'll send him a personal note to tell him it is all right. You might drop a line to Boot.'

'O.K. Uncle.'

****

Later this secretary said to his less important colleague:

'More birthdayers. Boot--writer. Do you know anything about him?'

'Yes, he's always lunching with Aunt Agnes. Smutty novels.'

'Well, write, and tell him he's fixed up, will you?'

****

Two days later, among his bills, John Courteney Boot found forwarded to him a letter which said:

'I am instructed by the Prime Minister to inform you that your name has been forwarded to H.M. the King with the recommendation for your inclusion in the Order of Knights Commanders of the Bath.'

'Golly,' said Boot. 'It must be Julia.'

Mrs Stitch was staying in the same house. He went and sat on her bed while she had breakfast. Presently he said:

'By the way, what d'you think? They're making me a Knight.'

'Who are?'

'The King and the Prime Minister. You know... a real Knight... Sir John Boot, I mean.'

'Well...'

'Is it your doing?'

'Well... I hardly know what to say, John. Are you pleased about it?'

'It's hard to say yet... taken by surprise. But I think I am... In fact I know I am... Come to think of it, I'm very pleased indeed.'

'Good,' said Mrs Stitch. 'I'm very pleased too,' and added, 'I suppose I did have something to do with it.'

'It was angelic of you. But why?'

'Just the Stitch service. I felt you had been disappointed about that job on the newspaper.'

****

Later, when Algernon Stitch came back from a day with the partridges, she said:

'Algie. What's come over your Prime Minister? He's making John a Knight.'

'John Gassoway? Oh, well, he's had his tongue hanging out for something ever since we got in.'

'No. John Boot.'

It was not often that Algernon Stitch showed surprise. He did then.

'Boot,' he said. 'Good God,' and added after a long pause. 'Overwork. Breaking up. Pity.'

****

John Boot was not sure whether to make a joke of it. He extended his confidence to a Lady Greenidge and a Miss Montesquieu. By dinner time the house was buzzing with the news. There was no doubt in anyone else's mind whether it was a joke or not.

****

'Anything to declare?'

'Nothing.'

'What, not with all this?'

'I bought it in London in June.'

'All of it?'

'More. There was a canoe...'

The customs officer laid hands on the nearest of the crates which lay conspicuously among the hand-luggage of returning holiday-makers. Then he read the label and his manner changed.

'Forgive me asking, sir, but are you by any chance Mr Boot of the Beast?'

'Yes, I suppose I am.'

'Ah. Then I don't think I need trouble you, sir... the missus will be pleased to hear I've seen you. We've been reading a lot about you lately.'

Everyone seemed to have read about William. From the moment he touched the fringe of the English-speaking world in the train de luxe from Marseilles, William had found himself the object of undisguised curiosity. On his way round Paris he had bought a copy of the Beast. The front page was mainly occupied with the preparations of the Ladies' Antarctic Expedition but, inset in the middle, was a framed notice:

BOOT IS BACK

That had been the paper of the day before. At Dover William bought the current issue. There, above a facsimile of his signature and a composite picture of his passport photograph surcharged on an Ishmaelite landscape, in the size of type which the Beast reserved for its most expensive contributors, stood the promised article.

'Two months ago,' it said, 'when Lord Copper summoned me from my desk in the Beast office, to handle the biggest news story of the century, I had never been to Ishmaelia. I knew little of foreign politics. I was being pitted against the most brilliant brains, the experience, and the learning of the civilized world. I had nothing except my youth, my will to succeed, and what--for want of a better word--I must call my flair. In the two months' battle of wits...'

William could read no more. Overcome with shame he turned towards the train. A telegraph boy was loafing about the platform uttering monotonous, monosyllabic, plaintive, gull-like cries which, in William's disturbed mind, sounded like 'Boot. Boot. Boot.' William turned guiltily towards him; he bore a cardboard notice, stuck, by a felicitous stroke of fancy, into a cleft stick, on which was inscribed in unmistakable characters, 'Boot.'

'I'm afraid that must be for me,' said William.

'There's a whole lot of them.'

The train seemed likely to start. William took the telegrams and opened them in the carriage, under the curious eyes of his fellow travellers.

PERSONALLY GRATIFIED YOUR SAFE RETURN COPPER.

BEAST REPRESENTATIVE WILL MEET YOU VICTORIA STOP PLEASE REPORT HERE IMMEDIATELY YOU RETURN STOP TALK BUSINESS NO ONE SALTER.

WILL YOU ACCEPT FIVE YEAR CONTRACT FIVE THOUSAND YEAR ROVING CORRESPONDENT EDITOR BRUTE.

PLEASE WIRE AUTHORITY NEGOTIATE BOOK SERIAL CINEMA RIGHTS AUTOBIOGRAPHY PAULS LITERARY AGENCY.

There were others, similarly phrased. William released them, one by one as he read them, at the open window. The rush of air whirled them across the charred embankment to the fields of stubble and stacked corn beyond.

****

At Victoria it was, once again, William's luggage which betrayed him. As he stood among the crates and bundles waiting for a taxi, a very young man approached him and said, 'I say, please, are you William Boot?' He had a pimply, eager face.

'Yes.'

'I'm from the Beast. They sent me to meet you. Mr Salter did.'

'Very kind of him.'

'I expect you would like a drink after your journey.'

'No thank you.'

'Mr Salter said I was to ask you.'

'Very kind of him.'

'I say, please have a drink. Mr Salter said I could put it down as expenses.'

The young man seemed very eager.

'All right,' said William.

'You wouldn't know me,' said the young man as they walked to the buffet. 'I'm Bateson. I've only been on the paper three weeks. This is the first time I've charged anything on expenses. In fact it is the first time I've drawn any money from the Beast at all. I'm "on space", you see.'

'Ah.'

They reached the buffet and Bateson bought some whisky. 'I say,' he said, 'would you think it awful cheek if I asked you to do something?'

'What?'

'It's your big story. I've got a first edition of it.' He drew a grubby newspaper from his pocket. 'Would you sign it for me?'

William signed.

'I say, thanks awfully. I'll get it framed. I've been carrying it about ever since it appeared--studying it, you know. That's the way they told me in the Correspondence School. Did you ever take a Correspondence School?'

'No.'

Bateson looked disappointed. 'Oh dear, aren't they a good thing? They're terribly expensive.'

'I expect they are a very good thing.'

'You do think so, don't you? I'm a graduate of the Aircastle School. I paid fifteen shillings a month and I got a specially recommended diploma. That's how I got taken on the Beast. It's a great chance, I know. I haven't had anything in the paper yet. But one has to start sometime. It's a great profession, isn't it?'

'Yes, I suppose in a way it is.'

'It must be wonderful to be like you,' said Bateson wistfully. 'At the top. It's been a great chance my meeting you like this. I could hardly believe it when Mr Salter picked me to come. "Go and greet Boot," he said. "Give him a drink. Get him here before he signs on with the Brute." You wouldn't want to sign on with the Brute, would you?'

'No.'

'You do think the Beast is the leading paper, don't you? I mean it's the greatest chance you can have working for the Beast?'

'Yes.'

'I am glad. You see it's rather depressing sometimes, day after day and none of one's stories getting printed. I'd like to be a foreign correspondent like you. I say, would you think it awful cheek if I showed you some of the stuff I write? In my spare time, I do it. I imagine some big piece of news and then I see how I should handle it. Last night in bed I imagined an actress with her throat cut. Shall I show it to you?'

'Please do,' said William, 'some time. But I think we ought to be going now.'

'Yes, I suppose we should. But you do think it's a good way of training oneself--inventing imaginary news?'

'None better,' said William.

They left the bar. The porter was keeping guard over the baggage. 'You'll need two cabs,' he said.

'Yes... Suppose you take the heavy stuff in one, Bateson, I'll follow with my own bags in the other.' He packed the young man in among the tropical equipment. 'Give them to Mr Salter and say I shan't need them any more.'

'But you're coming too?'

'I'm taking the cab behind,' said William.

They drove off down Victoria Street. When Bateson's cab was some distance ahead, William leant through the window and said, 'I've changed my mind. Go to Paddington instead.'

There was time before his train to telegraph to Boot Magna. 'Returning tonight William.'

****

'Boot said he didn't want these any more.'

'No,' said Mr Salter, surveying with distaste the heap of travel-worn tropical equipment which encumbered his room. 'No, I suppose not. And where is Boot?'

'Just behind.'

'You ought to have stayed with him.'

'I'm sorry, Mr Salter.'

'There's no need for you to wait.'

'All right.'

'Well what are you waiting for?'

'I was wondering, would you think it awful cheek if I asked for a souvenir.'

'Souvenir?'

'Of my meeting with Boot. Could you spare one of those cleft sticks?'

'Take the lot.'

'I say, may I really. I say, thank you ever so much.'

****

'That boy, Bateson. Is he balmy or something?'

'I daresay.'

'What's he doing here?'

'He comes from the Aircastle Correspondence School. They guarantee a job to all their star pupils. They've a big advertising account with us, so we sometimes take one of their chaps "on space" for a bit.'

'Well he's lost Boot. I suppose we can fire him now?'

'Surely.'

****

The harvest moon hung, brilliant and immense, over the elm trees. In the lanes around Boot Magna motor-cycles or decrepit cars travelled noisily home from the village whist drive; Mr Coggs, the bad character, packed his pockets for the night's sport; the smell of petrol hung about the hedges but inside the park everything was sweet and still. For a few feet ahead the lights of the car shed a feeble, yellow glow; beyond, the warm land lay white as frost, and, as they emerged from the black tunnel of evergreen around the gates into the open pasture, the drive with its sharply defined ruts, and hollows might have been a strip of the moon itself, a volcanic field cold since the creation.

A few windows were alight; only Uncle Theodore was still up. He opened the door to William.

'Ah,' he said, 'train late?'

'I don't think so.'

'Ah,' he said. 'We got your telegram.'

'Yes.'

'Had a good time?'

'Yes, fairly.'

'You must tell us all about it tomorrow. Your grandmother will want to hear, I know. Had any dinner?'

'Yes, thank you, on the train.'

'Good. We thought you might. We didn't keep anything hot. Rather short-handed at the moment. James hasn't been at all well, getting too old for his work--but there are some biscuits in the dining-room.'

'Thanks very much', said William. 'I don't think I want anything.'

'No. Well I think I'll be going along. Glad you've had such a good time. Don't forget to tell us about it. Can't say I read your articles. They were always cut out by the time I got the paper. Nannie Price disapproved of them. I must get hold of them, want to read them very much...' They were walking upstairs together; they reached the landing where their ways diverged. William carried his bag to his own room and laid it on the bed. Then he went to the window and, stooping, looked out across the moonlit park.

On such a night as this, not four weeks back, the tin roofs of Jacksonburg had lain open to the sky; a three-legged dog had awoken, started from his barrel in Frau Dressler's garden, and all over the town, in yards and refuse heaps, the pariahs had taken up his cries of protest.

****

'Well,' said Mr Salter, 'I've heard from Boot.'

'Any good?'

'No. No good.'

He handed the News Editor the letter that had arrived that morning from William.

Dear Mr Salter, it ran,Yours ever, William Boot.   P.S. Sorry. They forgot to post this. Now it's Saturday so you won't get it till Monday.

'You think he's talking turkey with the Brute.'

'If he's not already signed up.'

'Ours is a nasty trade, Salter. No gratitude.'

'No loyalty.'

'I've seen it again and again since I've been in Fleet Street. It's enough to make one cynical.'

'What does Lord Copper say?'

'He doesn't know. For the moment, fortunately, he seems to have forgotten the whole matter. But he may raise it again at any moment.'

He did, that morning.

'...ah, Salter, I was talking to the Prime Minister last night. The honours list will be out on Wednesday. How are the preparations going for the Boot banquet? It's on the Thursday, I think.'

'That was the date, Lord Copper.'

'Good. I shall propose the health of our guest of honour. By the way did Boot ever come and see me?'

'Up to a point, Lord Copper.'

'I asked for him.'

'Yes, Lord Copper.'

'Then why was he not brought? Once and for all, Salter, I will not have a barrier erected between me and my staff. I am as accessible to the humblest'... Lord Copper paused for an emphatic example... 'the humblest book reviewer as I am to my immediate entourage. I will have no cliques in the Beast, you understand me?'

'Definitely.'

'Then bring Boot here.'

'Yes, Lord Copper.'

It was an inauspicious beginning to Mr Salter's working day; worse was to come.

That afternoon he was sitting disconsolately in the News Editor's room when they were interrupted by the entry of a young man whose face bore that puffy aspect, born of long hours in the golf-house, which marked most of the better paid members of the Beast staff on their return from their summer holidays. Destined by his trustees for a career in the Household Cavalry, this young man had lately reached the age of twenty-five and plunged into journalism with a zeal which Mr Salter found it difficult to understand. He talked to them cheerfully for some time on matters connected with his handicap. Then he said:

'By the way, I don't know if there's a story in it, but I was staying last week with my Aunt Trudie. John Boot was there among other people--you know, the novelist. He'd just got a letter from the King or someone like that, saying he was going to be knighted.' The look of startled concern on the two editors' faces checked him. 'I see you don't think much of it. Oh well, I thought it might be worth mentioning. You know. "Youth's Opportunity in New Reign", that kind of thing.'

'John Boot--the novelist.'

'Yes. Rather good--at least I always read him. But it seemed a new line for the Prime Minister...'

****

'No,' said the Prime Minister with unusual finality.

'No?'

'No. It would be utterly impossible to change the list now. The man has been officially notified. And I could not consider knighting two men of the same name on the same day. Just the kind of thing the opposition would jump on. Quite rightly. Smacks of jobbery, you know.'

****

'Two Boots.'

'Lord Copper must know.'

'Lord Copper must never know.... There's only one comfort. We haven't committed ourselves to which Boot we are welcoming on Thursday or where he's come from.' Mr Salter pointed to the engraved card which had appeared during the week-end on the desks of all the four-figure men in the office.

VISCOUNT COPPER and the Directors of the Megalopolitan Newspaper Company request the honour of your company at dinner on Wednesday, September 16th, at the Braganza Hotel, to welcome the return of BOOT of THE BEAST   7.45 for 8 o'clock.

'We had a row with the social secretary about that. He said it wasn't correct. Lucky how things turned out.'

'It makes things a little better.'

'A little.'

'Salter, this is a case for personal contact. We've got to sign up this new Boot and any other Boot that may be going and one of them has got to be welcomed home on Thursday. There's only one thing for it, Salter, you must go down to the country and see Boot. I'll settle with the other.'

'To the country?'

'Yes, tonight.'

'Oh, but I couldn't go tonight.'

'Tomorrow then.'

'You think it is really necessary?'

'Either that, or we must tell Lord Copper the truth.'

Mr Salter shuddered. 'But wouldn't it be better,' he said, 'if you went to the country?'

'No. I'll see this novelist and get him signed up.'

'And sent away.'

'Or welcomed home. And you will offer the other Boot any reasonable terms to lie low.'

'Any reasonable terms.'

'Salter, old man, what's come over you? You keep repeating things.'

'It's nothing. It's only... travelling... always upsets me.'

He had a cup of strong tea and later rang up the Foreign Contacts Adviser to find out how he could best get to Boot Magna.