“T blew my cover one Sunday morning in a particularly fiil-dyke February 1969.” At the pop of a champagne cork in Fleet Street’s E] Vino, the mask of ‘Whitefriar’ was whisked away, revealing Eric Hiscock, naked and entirely unashamed. It was a moment of literary truth, and presently there was to be heard the rustle of guilty consciences in the corridors of publishing power. For Whitefriar is to the world of books as Marks is to Spencer and W. H. is to Smith. That champagne cork released a bubbling book with beaded by-lines winking at the brim and little lids being lifted on the gently fermenting scene of publishing. Like everything else, it started in Oxford... .<br>&nbsp;South from Carfax, St Aldate’s runs past Christ Church to Folly Bridge, whence Mr Salter’s boats plied—and still do — upon the Isis. It is a rather ordinary bridge, but in the years before the Kaiser’s War it was the centre of one small boy’s world. From Folly Bridge and from the dangerous quicksands of the choirstalls of Exeter College, Eric Hiscock set out into the world; first to the trenches and to an improbable Field General Court Martial at the age of sixteen, and then to Fleet Street and a life spent among the literary lions—and_ lion-tamers—of the last fifty years.<br>&nbsp;Last Boat to Folly Bridge is at once a voyage of discovery, a cautionary tale, and —for the literary lions of tomorrow—a professional guide through the jungle of London publishing houses.<br>&nbsp;It is a kindly book in an unkind world. And Mr Salter—and everyone who cares about books—should be grateful for it.

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