Not Quite Dead by John MacLachlan Gray Page B

that Mr. Topham is extremely busy. It is unlikely that he has read your work in such a short time.”
    “That is possible, sor. Yet in any case, I should prefer to speak to him now.”
    “Mr. Topham is at work in his office. He cannot be disturbed.”
    “I am not satisfied by your answer, sor.”
    “I beg your pardon, sah? You are not—”
    “Satisfied. Sor.”
    Something about the visitor’s demeanor, his calmness, his certainty of his position—whatever that was—caused the trim gentleman to reevaluate. “Very well, I shall disturb him,” he said, and rising from his desk, knocked on the door to Mr. Topham’s office, turned the knob, and slipped inside with liquid grace.
    A long pause followed. Then the door opened briskly and the little man reappeared, followed by Mr. Topham, a flustered, ostentatiously busy man in a plum coat and a yellow waistcoat who put Devlin in mind of an overfed bird. The cheeks of a man who enjoys a glass of fine wine. A double chin disguised by a precise goatee. Above the smile of welcome, the eyes remained watchful.
    At the sight of the visitor, however, Topham’s countenance formed a pleased expression. In the saloons and sporting clubs of Dublin and Liverpool and London it was common for flamboyant professional gentlemen—lawyers and businessmen—to seek out the company of athletic young men from the lower classes. Some of these men frequented football and boxing clubs for that purpose. It did not take forever for a well-favored young man of limited means to comprehend the basis for this enthusiasm for the hoi polloi.
    “Splendid to see you, Mr….” Henry Topham paused, embarrassed, waiting for the visitor to supply a name to the void. “Oh dear, forgive me. Of course I remember the face, I never forget a face, but…”
    “Finn Devlin is my name, sor. And at the Sportsman’s Hall it was.”
    “Ah yes, Irish, of course. The Sportsman’s Hall, of course, of course. Smashing match it was, absolutely top drawer.” Devlin marveled at the publisher’s speech pattern, which suggested that there existed a place in the Atlantic midway between patrician America and patrician England where a man might acquire an accent.
    “A grand donnybrook it was and for certain, Mr. Topham,” said Devlin. “I am the writer in whom you were kind enough to express some interest.”
    “Indeed, of course. Of course. A most unusual circumstance, to discover a young writer at a boxing match. And of course you are the writer of …”
    “ White Niggers of America . My book dealt with the Irish question, sor. You expressed interest, if I may say so.”
    “Of course. The Irish question.” The contents of the evening had begun to return to Topham’s mind. At the match and afterward, the editor had waxed eloquent over the sheer manliness of this country called America. In the course of the evening, he had spoken at length about the need for manly writers, writers who carried with them a genuine sense of the grit and the sweat of real American life.
    “Whatever the reason for your interest, Mr. Topham, sor, you received the manuscript in your mailbox. Delivered it with my own hands, I did.”
    “Indeed. Indeed you did just that, sir. Please take a seat.” The editor indicated the visitor’s couch, and not the inner office. For an aspiring author it was not a hopeful sign, so Devlin chose to remain standing.
    “Oh dear,” said Topham abruptly, chuckling as though having misplaced his pen. “Ah yes. Allow me to introduce you to my partner, Mr. Bailey. Mr. Bailey, this is Mr. Devlin, a young writer who shows great promise.”
    “Yes, we have met,” said the tidy gentleman, watching carefully. “And I agree that his writing shows promise.”
    “Mr. Bailey, would you be so good as to retrieve the gentleman’s manuscript, entitled— Oh, what was it? Oh dear, there I go again …”
    “White Niggers of America is the title I believe,” said Mr. Bailey.
    “That is correct,” said