approach their rat in support of the directive

that I could do auric research, and all the offers I had was
to write a silly book about myself.
Some time before I had answered an advertisement for
a Technical Writer for instruction books in connection with
aircraft. By the evening mail I received a letter asking me
to attend for an interview on the morrow. "Ah!" I thought,
"I may get this job at Crawley after all!"
Early the next morning, as I was having breakfast before
going to Crawley, a letter dropped in the box. It was from
Mr. B-. "You should write a book," the letter said.
"Think it over carefully and come and see me again."
"Pah!" I said to myself, "I should hate to write a book!"
Off I went to Clapham Station to get a train for Crawley.
The train was the slowest ever, to my mind. It seemed
to dawdle at every station and grind along the stretches
between as if the engine or the driver was at the last gasp.
Eventually I arrived at Crawley. The day was swelteringly
hot now and I had just missed the bus. The next one would
be too late. I plodded along through the streets, being mis-
directed by person after person, because the firm I was going
to see was in a very obscure place. At long last, almost