Albert Memorial, he knew.

He would write a novel about a boy called William who had lived in
Cornwall, and who came to London and wrote a novel, a novel of which "The
Westminster Gazette" said: "This novel undoubtedly places the author in
the front rank of living novelists." William's novel would be a realistic
account of--yes, that was it--of a boy called Henry, who had lived in
Cornwall, and who came to London and wrote a novel, a novel of which "The
Morning Post" said: "By this novel the author has indubitably established
his claim to be reckoned among the few living novelists who count." But
stay! What should this novel of Henry's be about? It would be necessary
to describe it. For an hour he wrestled with the problem, and then he had
another inspiration. Henry's novel would be about a boy called Thomas who
had lived in Cornwall and who came to London and wrote a novel {about a
boy called Stephen who had lived in Cornwall, and who came to London and
wrote a novel (about a boy called Michael who had lived in Cornwall, and
who came to London and wrote a novel (about a boy called Peter, who had
lived in Cornwall, and ...) ...

And so on.

And every one of the novels would establish the author's right to be
reckoned, etc., and place him undoubtedly in the very front rank.

It was a stupendous idea. For a moment John was almost paralysed at
contemplation of it. There seemed to be no end to his novel as he had
planned it. Was it too much for his powers?

There was only one way to find out. He hurried back to his
bed-sitting-room, seized a pen and began to write.

III

It was two years later. For the last fortnight John Penquarto had stopped
counting the money in his belt. There was none left. For a fortnight now
he had been living on the belt itself.

But a great hope had always sustained him. One day he would hear from the
publisher to whom he had sent his novel a year ago.

And now at last the letter had come, and he was seated in the office of
the great Mr. Pump himself. His heart beat rapidly. He felt suffocated.

"Well, Mr. Penquarto," said the smiling publisher, "I may say at once
that we like your novel. We should have written before, but we have only
just finished reading it. It is a little long--about two million eight
hundred thousand words, I reckon it--but I have a suggestion to make
which will meet that difficulty. I suggest that we publish it in half a
dozen volumes, stopping, for the first