“The news editor was in the office when I walked in, and he was a kindly man, was old Andrews. He looked at me from under his great bushy eyebrows for a few moments without speaking; then he pointed to a chair. “‘Graham,’ he remarked in a deep bass voice, ‘are you aware that this paper has never yet possessed a man on its staff that writes such unutterable slush as you do?’ “I remained discreetly silent; to dissent seemed tactless, to agree, unnecessary. “‘What do you propose to do about it?’ he continued after a while. “I told him that I hadn’t realised I was as bad as all that, but that I would do my best to improve my style and give satisfaction in the future. “‘It’s not so much your style,’ he conceded. ‘Years ago I knew a man whose style was worse. Only a little—but it was worse. But it’s your nose for news, my boy—that’s the worst thing that ever came into Fleet Street. Now, what were you doing yesterday?’ “‘I was reporting that wedding at the Brompton Oratory, sir,’ I told him. “‘Just so,’ he answered. ‘And are you aware that in a back street not three hundred yards from the church a man died through eating a surfeit of winkles, as the result of a bet? Actually while you were there did that man die by the winkle-barrow—and you knew nothing about it. I’m not denying that your report on the wedding isn’t fair—but the public is entitled to know about the dangers of winkle-eating to excess. Not that the rights of the public matter in the least, but it’s the principle I want to impress on you—the necessity of keeping your eyes open for other things beside the actual job you’re on. That’s what makes the good journalist.’ “I assured him that I would do so in future, and he grunted non-committally. Then he began rummaging in a drawer, while I waited in trepidation. “‘We’ll give you a bit longer, Graham,’ he announced at length, and I breathed freely again. ‘But if there is no improvement you’ll have to go. And in the meantime I’ve got a job for you this afternoon. Some public-spirited benefactor has inaugurated an agricultural fête in Kent, somewhere near Ashford. From what I can gather, he seems partially wanting in intelligence, but it takes people all ways. He is giving prizes for the heaviest potato and the largest egg—though I am unable to see what the hen’s activity has to do with her owner. And I want you to go down and write it up. Half a column. Get your details right. I believe there is a treatise on soils and manures in the office somewhere. And put in a paragraph about the paramount importance of the Englishman getting back to the land. Not that it will have any effect, but it might help to clear Fleet Street.’