M.W.O.T.B.O.E.T.L.I. O.I.A.H. were about to lose a member.
James, for his part, was all against the Colonies. As a setting for his
career, that is to say. He was no Little Englander. He had no earthly
objection to Great Britain _having Colonies._ By all means have
Colonies. They could rely on him for moral support. But when it came to
legging it out to West Australia to act as a sort of valet to Uncle
Frederick's beastly sheep--no. Not for James. For him the literary
life. Yes, that was James's dream--to have a stab at the literary life.
At Oxford he had contributed to the _Isis,_ and since coming down
had been endeavouring to do the same to the papers of the Metropolis.
He had had no success so far. But some inward voice seemed to tell
him--(Read on. Read on. This is no story about the young beginner's
struggles in London. We do not get within fifty miles of Fleet Street.)
A temporary compromise was effected between the two parties by the
securing for James of a post as assistant-master at Harrow House, the
private school of one Blatherwick, M.A., the understanding being that
if he could hold the job he could remain in England and write, if it
pleased him, in his spare time. But if he fell short in any way as a
handler of small boys he was to descend a step in the animal kingdom
and be matched against the West Australian sheep.
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