«Sure,» said he, much relieved. «I'll start in working right now.»

He went straightaway up to his room, looked at himself in the glass, and thus, oddly enough, recovered his damaged self-esteem. «I'll show those po' whites how to treat a gentleman,» said he.

«What did that poor worm say? 'Leap-clutch-grapple —' Oh, boy! Oh, boy! This book's goin' to sell like hot cakes.»

He scribbled away like the very devil. His handwriting was atrocious, but what of that? His style was not the best in the world, but he was writing about life in the raw. A succession of iron grips, such as the one he had been forced to loosen, of violent consummations, interruptions, beatings-up, flowed from his pen, interspersed with some bitter attacks on effete civilization, and many eulogies of the primitive.

«This'll make 'em sit up,» said he. «This'll go big.»

When he went down to supper, he noticed some little chilliness in Mrs. Grantly's demeanour. This was no doubt due to his cowardly behaviour in the afternoon. He trusted no one, and now became damnably afraid she would report his conduct to her husband; consequently he was the more eager to get his book done, so that he should be independent and in a position to revenge himself. He went upstairs immediately after the meal, and toiled away till past midnight, writing like one who confesses to a Sunday newspaper.

Before many days had passed in this fashion, he was drawing near the end of his work, when the Grantlys announced to him, with all the appearance of repressed excitement, that the best selling of all novelists was coming to dine with them. The gorilla looked forward to the evening with equal eagerness; he looked forward to gleaning a tip or two.

The great man arrived; his limousine was sufficiently resplendent. The big ape eyed him with the very greatest respect all through the meal. Afterwards they sat about and took coffee, just as ordinary people do. «I hear,» said the Best-Seller to Grantly, «that you are just finishing a novel.»

«Oh, a poor thing!» said the good-natured fellow. «Simpson, here, is the man who's going to set the Thames on fire. I fear my stuff is altogether too niggling. It is a sort of social satire, I touch a little on the Church, War, Peace, Fascism, Communism — one or two things of that sort, but hardly in a full-blooded fashion. I wish I could write something more primitive — fecund women, the urge of lust, blood hatred, all that, you know.»

«Good heavens, my dear Grantly!» cried the great man. «This comes of living so far out of the world. You really must move to some place more central. Public taste is on the change. I can assure you, that before your book can be printed, Mr. P—» (he mentioned the critic who makes or breaks) «will no longer be engaged, but married, and to a young woman of Junoesque proportions. What chance do you think the urge of lust will have with poor P—, after a month of his marriage to this magnificently proportioned young woman? No, no, my boy, stick to social satire. Put a little in about feminism, if you can find room for it. Guy the cult of the he-man, and its effect on deluded women, and you're safe for a record review. You'll be made.»

«I've got something of that sort in it,» said Grantly with much gratification, for authors are like beds; even the most artistic requires to be made.

«Who's doing the book for you?» continued his benevolent mentor. «You must let me give you a letter to my publisher. Nothing is more disheartening than hawking a book round the market, and having it returned unread. But Sykes is good enough to set some weight on my judgment; in fact, I think I may say, without boasting, you can look on the matter as settled.»

«Say, you might give me a letter, tool» cried the gorilla, who had been listening in consternation to the great man's discourse.

«I should be delighted, Mr. Simpson,» returned that worthy with great suavity. «But you know what these publishers are. Pigheaded isn't the word for them. Well, Grantly, I must be getting along. A delightful evening! Mrs. Grantly,» said he, slapping his host on the shoulder, «this is the man who is going to make us old fossils sit up. Take care of him. Give him some more of that delicious zabaglione. Good night! Good night!»

The gorilla was tremendously impressed by the great man's manner, his confidence, his pronouncements, his spectacles, his limousine, and above all by the snub he had given him, for such creatures are always impressed by that sort of thing. «That guy knows the works,» he murmured in dismay. «Say, I been barking up the wrong tree! I oughta gone in for style.»

The Grantlys returned from the hall, where they had accompanied their visitor, and it was obvious from their faces that they, too, placed great reliance on what they had heard. I am not sure that Mr. Grantly did not rub his hands.

«Upon my word!» he said. «It certainly sounds likely enough. Have you seen poor P—'s fiancée? His views will certainly change. Ha! Ha! Supposing, my dear, I became a best-seller?»

«It's terribly exciting!» cried Joanna. «Will it change your idea of going on a cruise when first the book comes out?»

«No, no,» said he. «I think an author should detach himself from that side, however gratifyingly it may develop. I want to know nothing of the book from the moment it appears till it is forgotten.»

«What? You going to spend a coupla days at Brighton?» struck in the gorilla bitterly.

«Ha! Ha! What a satirist you would make!» cried Grantly with the greatest good nature. «No. We thought of going for a trip round the world. I agree a shorter absence would outlast whatever stir the book may make; however, we want to see the sights.»

The gorilla wrote never a word that night. He was overcome with mortification. He could not bear to think of the Grantlys sailing around the world, while the book he had despised piled up enormous royalties at home. Still less could he bear the thought of staying behind, left without a patron, and with his own book piling up no royalties at all. He saw a species of insult in his host's «striking gold,» as he termed it, and then turning his back on it in this fashion.

«That guy don't deserve the boodle!» he cried in anguish of spirit. In fact, he uttered this sentiment so very often during the night that in the end an idea was born of its mere repetition.

During the next few days he hastily and carelessly finished his own masterpiece, to have it ready against the coup he planned. In a word, this vile ape had resolved to change the manuscripts. He had alternative title pages, on which the names of the authors were transposed, typed in readiness. When at last the good Grantly announced that his work was complete, the gorilla announced the same; the two parcels were done up on the same evening, and the plotter was insistent in his offers to take them to the post

Grantly was the more willing to permit this, as he and his wife were already busy with preparations for their departure. Shortly afterwards, they took their farewell of the gorilla, and, pressing into his hand a tidy sum to meet his immediate necessities, they wished his book every success, and advised that his next should be a satire.

The cunning ape bade them enjoy themselves, and took up his quarters in Bloomsbury, where he shortly had the pleasure of receiving a letter from the publishers to say that they were accepting the satirical novel which he had sent them.

He now gave himself airs as a writer, and got all the publicity he could. On one occasion, however, he was at a party, where he beheld a woman of Junoesque proportions in the company of a bilious weakling. The party was a wild one, and he had no scruples about seizing her in a grip of iron, regardless of the fury of her companion. This incident made little impression on his memory, for he attended a great many Bloomsbury parties.