Manchurian Books

"I
must do SOMETHING," he said. "I can't stand it.
"I must invent something. And shove it.... I could.
"Or a play. There's a deal of money in a play, George. What would you
think of me writing a play eh?... There's all sorts of things to be
done.
"Or the stog-igschange."
He fell into that meditative whistling of his.
"Sac-ramental wine!" he swore, "this isn't the world--it's Cold Mutton
Fat! That's what Wimblehurst is! Cold Mutton Fat!--dead and stiff! And
I'm buried in it up to the arm pits. Nothing ever happens, nobody
wants things to happen 'scept me! Up in London, George, things happen.
America! I wish to Heaven, George, I'd been born American--where things
hum.
"What can one do here? How can one grow? While we're sleepin' here with
our Capital oozing away into Lord Eastry's pockets for rent-men are
up there...." He indicated London as remotely over the top of the
dispensing counter, and then as a scene of great activity by a whirl of
the hand and a wink and a meaning smile at me.
"What sort of things do they do?" I asked.


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