In
this leisure time he wrote a novel in two volumes; one publisher
refused it, but a second offered to bring it out on the terms of
half profits to the author. The book appeared, and was well
spoken of in one or two papers; but profits there were none to
divide. In the third year of his clerkship he wrote a novel in
three volumes; for this his publishers gave him twenty-five
pounds, with again a promise of half the profits after deduction
of the sum advanced. Again there was no pecuniary success. He had
just got to work upon a third book, when his grandfather at Derby
died and left him four hundred pounds.
He could not resist the temptation to recover his freedom. Four
hundred pounds, at the rate of eighty pounds a year, meant five
years of literary endeavour. In that period he could certainly
determine whether or not it was his destiny to live by the pen.
In the meantime his relations with the secretary of the hospital,
Carter by name, had grown very friendly. When Reardon began to
publish books, the high-spirited Mr Carter looked upon him with
something of awe; and when the literary man ceased to be a clerk,
there was nothing to prevent association on equal terms between
him and his former employer.
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