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Updated: May 5, 2025
Had the meteorological conditions been adverse to the point of malignancy, I should have closed with her terms. Simple agreements were ratified then and there by the light of a candle in the passage, and I left the house, promising to "come in" in the course of the following afternoon. The three weeks which I spent at No. 93A mark an epoch in my life.
It was about the middle of my third week at No. 93A that I definitely decided to throw over my authorities, and work by the light of my own intelligence. Nearly all my authorities had been very severe on the practice of verse-writing. It was, they asserted, what all young beginners tried to do, and it was the one thing editors would never look at.
Evicted from No. 93A, it seemed to me that I had better abandon Bohemia; postpone my connection with that land of lotus-eaters for the moment, while I provided myself with the means of paying rent and buying dinners. Farther down the King's Road there were comfortable rooms to be had for a moderate sum per week. They were prosaic, but inexpensive. I chose Walpole Street.
How unerring is instinct, if properly cultivated. Hardly had the clocks struck twelve when the emissaries there were two of them, which showed the importance of their errand walked briskly to No. 93A, and knocked at the door. The writer heard the knock. He rose hurriedly, and began to collect his papers.
They have completely lost their nerve. They insist upon the author accompanying them to see with his own eyes that all is well. They do not wish Posterity to hand their names down to eternal infamy as "the men who lost Blank's manuscript." So, greatly against his will, he is dragged off. My vigil is rewarded. No. 93A harbours a Bohemian. Let it be inhabited also by me.
Then, just as I was about to retire defeated, I was arrested by the appearance of a house numbered 93A. At the first-floor window sat a man. He was writing. I could see his profile, his long untidy hair. I understood in a moment. This was no ordinary writer. He was one of those Bohemians whose wit had been exercised upon me so successfully.
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