"Sylvia," I cried, "I shall have to make a confession. All those
stories you have been good enough to read and occasionally smile over
are the result of a cold-blooded mechanical process--and the help of
a dictionary of synonyms."

"Oo! How wonderful! Do show me how."

"Very well. Since you are going to be a literary giantess it is well
that you should be initiated into the mysteries of producing what I
shall call the illusion of spontaneity. Now take this story here. Here
on this old envelope is THE IDEA."

"Oo! Let me see. I can't read a word."

"Of course you can't; nobody could. Rough copies are divided into
classes as follows:--

"No. 1. Those I can read, but nobody else can.

"No. 2. Those I can't read myself after two days.

"No. 3. Those my typist can read.

"This story is about a certain Brigade Major who is an inveterate
leg-puller. Some Americans are expected to be coming for instruction.
Well, before they arrive the Brigade Major has to go up to the line,
and on his way he meets a man with a very new tin hat who asks him
in a certain nasal accent we have all come to love if he has seen
anything of a party of Americans. Spotting him as a new chum, the