Northern Wisconsin advertiser. [volume] (Wabeno, Wis.) 1898-1925, 1904-06-30
Fiction


IL VIII De Sood deal less work 1or
you, while /"
'Yes?" inquired he, rising.
Il don't seem to be able to sell my
stories as it is, don't you see?" she
continued, with the first signs of los
ing her nerve Her dimple had van
ished temporarily. And I'm sure
I'm profoundly obliged to you,' re.
marked the eminent novelist very
coldly, "but l fear that such an ar
rangement would be scarcely fair"
Not fair?" she echoed, with a
touch OF scorn. Not fair? To
whom? ~ your publisher? He
doesn't even read your manuscripts
now, of course. It's just your name,
and his imprint. To your public?
They'll gobble anything signed by you
because it's the thing don't you
know, Not fair to yourself? | main
tain that ! shall do you more than
justice. Here's a short piece"
She produced from a little bag hang.
ing at her waist a folded paper, in a
conjuring trick kind of way. 'Rea0
that; sign it-and do me the honor of
making the attempt Good-morning."
She dropped the paper into the hand
outstretched in dismissal, courtesiao
charmingly, smiled and dimpled once
more, then rustled herself to the door
and disappeared from his view, leaving
a perfume of violets and forgotten
4hinoz hehind her Tn n jittle
while the eminent novelist heard the
departing carriage wheels. He
laughed then heartily-utterly. We'll,
I'm"
He stopped short, and returned to his
desk. There he unfolded the paper
and glanced casually at it. Hin
rather like my STYLE" he admitted.
He looked at the end. Clever girl
that wonder if there's anything in
what she says? / would like to
know" He seized his pen; signed
the manuscript in his neat, small
handwriting; then pushed the paper
hastily into an envelope Withou
permitting himself pause to relent, he
addressed the envelope to his agent,
stamped it; rang for the page boy.
Post that at once, will your" he
ordered coolly.
Within three posts the manuscript
was returned-with an incredulous
note from the AGENT
My dear chap, what are you about?
Is it a joke, or midsummer madness :?
You send me a queer little piece;
thoughtful, analytical. and done WITH
more than your usual style. So much
I'll freely admit. But where is the
story? Don't you know, by now, that
the tales the thing? Haven't /
drummed it into you ever since we
started together; and with the best
results for both of us? i can sell your
stuff like hot cakes in the ordinary
course, and | can find a market for
the last-if you insist.
But. Firstly, the public hate
analysis. They haven't the leisure
for it, or the patience-or the under
Standing. Secondly, they can only alp
preciate thought so long as it keeps
on the copybook plaitude level Hang
it, man-remember how books
sell! Lastly, as regards style, the
public honestly don't care one way
or to'other. Forgive my brutality,
and let me know what I'm to do
Yours. perplexed -.
The eminent novelist pacified the
agent by withdrawing the obnoxious
piece and sending him two short
stories, in his (the e. n.'s) later man
ner. Then the eminent novelist
waited for the return of the violet
girl with outward calm
Inwardly he was disturbed little.
He felt some sense of triumph tina,
her impudent notion of fooling the
public should have failed so dismally
at the very outset,
Moreover, on reflection, he decided
that the agent has sought to soften
his rejection of. the manuscript, anc
so had ingeniously implied it to be
too good This seemed a reason
able view of the mans letter On the
whole, the violet girl hadn't actually
secured point.
Having thus entirely disposed o.
her, the eminent novelist glanced a
second time at her story. He smiled
as he noted the construction, the anti
climax, the 'youngness" of the thing.
He shrugged indulgently toward the
quaint rounding of her sentences, so
intelligently reproducing his own
style. One or two phrases stirred
him; indeed, he allowed reluctantly
that Their was merit in the piece.
II was really clever how she caught
his earlier method.
ideals are the unattainable," she
wrote, yet every decent man will
strive after themi"
Time smooths away the epochs in
our lives; SO that presently only
wrinkles are left to mark their scars"
MY next book will be all margin.
But don't suppose the public win ap
preciate the delicate irony of it,"
Satirical, Ell? Another phase o.
youth. He returned to his work.
His new daring novel-"Heart of
Girl"
She came, with her faint fragrance
of violets and memories. The eminent