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I sent Raffles a card, care of the Vice-Chancellor of Oxford University, whose guest he was while playing cricket there, to let him know when the foundry proofs, the final proofs of our first issue fully made-up, were due from the printers, the McWhirter Printing & Engraving Company, in Long Acre. He turned up, looking tanned and fit, the same morning as the proofs arrived and was very pleased with them.

“A great job, Bunny! You and Mirabel have done wonders. Our first issue’s a corker. It’ll open a new era in sporting journalism.”

There was a knock on the door. Lord Pollexfen strode in.

“Ah, good morning, Raffles,” he said. “Good morning, Manders. Mr. McWhirter, the Master Printer, tells me he’s delivered your foundry proofs. I’d like a look at them before deciding how many thousands of copies to venture on as a printing order.”

Raffles handed him the proofs, and I offered him a sherry-and-bitters, which Raffles and I were drinking as a mid-morning refreshment. The peer shook his head, pushed his silk hat to the back of it, and, still standing, screwed his monocle into his eye to examine the proofs.

“A splendid Contents page, gentlemen,” he said. “Such names! John L. Sullivan — Lord Lonsdale of the Lonsdale Belts — Sir Harry Preston on the subject of Tod Sloan, the great jockey — Vardon on golf — Prince Ranjisinjhi on tiger-shooting! Excellent! Outstanding!”

“We owe those contributions to our Editor,” I said, indicating Raffles, who was sitting on the edge of my desk, swinging a leg idly.

“I foresaw something of this, of course, when I approached him,” said the Press baron. “I knew what I was doing. I always do.” He turned the pages. His smile faded. “What’s this? What are these interpolated effusions by women?

“Those are articles,” Raffles said, “obtained by our Contributing Editor from various eminent ladies with active tastes.”

“But good God, man! John L. Sullivan’s article on boxing followed by some female whining about the exclusion of her sex from witnessing the bouts staged at the National Sporting Club? This is monstrously out of place, Raffles!”

“I’m sorry to hear you say that, Pollexfen,” said Raffles.

“And here again — the great Harry Vardon on golf immediately followed by some woman bleating about the need for a more socially acceptable kind of garment as a first step to eradicating the insult to her sex in their being obliged to drive off more favoured tees than the men. What provocative nonsense! What does the idiotic woman mean — ‘a more socially acceptable kind of garment’?”

“It’s shown there in the illustrations,” Raffles said. “One illustration depicts the hampering effect on the golf swing of ankle-length skirt and petticoats in a high wind. The contrasting illustration shows the healthful freedom, both physical and psychological, provided by a garment, a form of trousering, specially designed by our own Contributing Editor.”

“This disgraceful illustration,” the peer said angrily, “appears to have been posed for by that young woman in the other office. I’ve seen her before somewhere. Isn’t she the one who threw the bomb at Lord’s?”

“Indeed yes,” said Raffles. “Our Contributing Editor.”

Lord Pollexfen threw the proof down on my desk. “I will not publish a magazine polluted through and through with this kind of subversive stuff. It’s entirely contrary to the policy of the Pollexfen Press, which is to keep women contented in their homes. I’m deeply disappointed, Raffles. This issue will have to be remade, omitting the offensive material. And call that young woman in. I intend to dismiss her instantly.”

“I’m sorry, Pollexfen,” Raffles said quietly. “I engaged Miss Renny. As a matter of principle, I will neither dismiss her nor alter one word of this first issue of my magazine.”

“Then, by God, you must look elsewhere for a publisher!”

“In that case, Manders and I will publish the magazine from our own resources. Shall we not, Bunny?”

“Certainly, Raffles,” I said, wondering uneasily what resources he was talking about, as we both were overdrawn at the bank.

“I warn you,” said the Press peer, glaring haughtily through his monocle. “A. J. Raffles is not the only name to conjure with on the sports horizon. I shall seek a superior name for my sports magazine — and use the entire financial resources of the Pollexfen Press to crush any amateurish attempt at a rival publication.”

“That is your privilege,” Raffles said courteously.

“I also decline,” barked the peer, “to be responsible for expenses incurred to date, including McWhirter’s bill, and I shall require vacant possession of this office by six p.m. today.”

He stalked out, slamming the door.

Raffles chuckled. “In chivalric terms, Bunny, there goes a male rampant, mounted on a prejudice, in a field ensanguined. Of course, this was inevitable.”

“You expected it?” I said, astonished.

“I counted on it, Bunny.” He offered me a cigarette from his case. “Well, now, first things first. We’re without premises. We’re overdrawn at the bank, but the manager’s a cricketer and a good friend. He won’t mind our using the bank as an accommodation address. Got a pencil handy? Take down this announcement.”

Lighting my cigarette and his own, he paced thoughtfully.

“ ‘Owing,’ ” he dictated, “ ‘to the refusal of the original publisher to permit the expression of female opinion, and therefore withdrawing financial support, prospective contributors to A. J. Raffles’ Magazine, which hopes soon to publish under less prejudiced auspices, are notified that unsolicited contributions should be submitted to The Editor, Raffles’ Magazine, care of County and Confidential Bank, Berkeley Square, London, accompanied by a stamped, self-addressed envelope for return if unsuitable.’ That’s the conventional wording, I think, Bunny?”

“Well, more or less,” I said.

“Good,” said Raffles. “Run it in the Personal columns of all evening and daily newspapers till further notice. Now, another thing: as eligible bachelors, we both get plenty of invitations to dine out—”

“You in the best houses,” I said, “myself at the second best.”

“Comparisons are invidious,” said Raffles. “Accept all the invitations you get. I shall do the same. And we owe no duty to Pollexfen, so there’s no need to make it a secret, in mixed company, that we’ve parted from him, and the reason for it, and are trying to get out the magazine by using our private means. Now, let’s call Mirabel in and see if she’s prepared to stand by us in this crisis.”

One flash from Mirabel’s eyes, when she heard that we were now to go it alone, made it plain where she stood. So, for better or worse, I rented a bleak little office for us just off Drury Lane.

Money being tight, I was glad enough to dine out frequently, and it seemed to me, when I recounted our trouble with Lord Pollexfen, that the mirth of the men at the table was offensively raucous, but that some of the ladies looked at me sympathetically as they withdrew to the drawing-room and whatever ladies talk about there, and left us men to our port.

My leg was pulled unmercifully by some of these hearties, but my real worry was the Master Printer, Mr. McWhirter. We were in a galling position. We had a fine magazine made up and ready to print, but there was not a hope of a single copy coming off the presses of that canny Scotsman until his bill for services to date was paid.

“We shall have to call on somebody, Bunny,” Raffles said.

“Who, for instance?” I asked gloomily.

“A certain barrister who’s a member of one of my clubs, Bunny. His name’s Sir Geoffrey Cullimore, K.C. He’s a blustering brute who makes at least fifty thousand a year by reducing men to jelly in the witness-box, and women to tears.”