said I, as I stretched my
hand towards the pitcher, "unless--and here I took a considerable
draught--I write a tale or a novel--That bookseller," I continued,
speaking to myself, "is certainly much in need of a tale or novel,
otherwise he would not advertise for one. Suppose I write one, I appear
to have no other chance of extricating myself from my present
difficulties; surely it was Fate that conducted me to his window."

"I will do it," said I, as I struck my hand against the table; "I will do
it." Suddenly a heavy cloud of despondency came over me. Could I do it?
Had I the imagination requisite to write a tale or a novel? "Yes, yes,"
said I, as I struck my hand again against the table, "I can manage it;
give me fair play, and I can accomplish anything."

But should I have fair play? I must have something to maintain myself
with whilst I wrote my tale, and I had but eighteen pence in the world.
Would that maintain me whilst I wrote my tale? Yes, I thought it would,
provided I ate bread, which did not cost much, and drank water, which
cost nothing; it was poor diet, it was true, but better men than myself
had written on bread and water; had not the big man told me so, or
something to that effect, months before?

It was true there was my lodging to pay for; but up to the present time I
owed nothing, and perhaps, by the time the people of the house asked me
for money, I should have written a tale or a novel, which would bring me
in money; I had paper, pens and ink, and, let me not forget them, I had
candles in my closet, all paid for, to light me during my night work.
Enough, I would go doggedly to work upon my tale or novel.

But what was the tale or novel to be about? Was it to be a tale of
fashionable life, about Sir Harry Somebody, and the Countess Something?
But I knew nothing about fashionable people, and cared less; therefore
how should I attempt to describe fashionable life? What should the tale
consist of? The life and adventures of some one. Good--but of whom? Did
not Mr. Petulengro mention one Jemmy Abershaw? Yes. Did he not tell me
that the life and adventures of Jemmy Abershaw would bring in much money
to the writer? Yes, but I knew nothing of that worthy. I heard, it is
true, from Mr. Petulengro, that when alive he committed robberies on the
hill, on the side of which Mr. Petulengro had pitched his tents, and that
his ghost still haunted the hill at midnight; but those were scant
material