Newark evening star and Newark advertiser., 1910-10-10

his body, stopping now and again 10
give it a little extra twist or turn
stoically to watch himself twinge and
vince with the pain, eyes closing
mouth contorted.
And anguish of soul, indeed, every
whit as bitter Arthur Vaughan now
knew. Hardly had he realized, after
his friendly chat with Henry Carleton,
and the words of encouragement he
had received from that practised man
of affairs, how thoroughly he had dis
counted the future. Down In the bot
tom of his heart he knew now that for
a fortnight he had really cherished the
belief that all would at last come right,
that the book would be taken, that his
name would be made, that his mar
riage with Rose would be but a ques-
tion of a longer or shorter time; and
now, hopes dashed, he was back again
where he had started; nay, worse off.
indeed, for another possible chance was
lost to him. another publisher had set
the seal of dsapproval on his work.
oh, it was all too bitter!
Mechanically he read and reread the
letter All we're there-all the little
said one thing, yet were made to say 1t
so smoothly and courteously that at the
end he half doubted that after all his
work had been refused-all We're there.
1--WE are returning'-yes, that seemed
enough. almost, but still they had to go
on-"manuscript you have been so kind
as to submit"-oh, of course, it had
been such kindness on his part-"read-
s..- I,r Ia -,
pleasure OF what sort, Vaughan
wondered; "it has many obvious
merits"-why didn't they take it,
then? - "and some equally obvious
defects" All, yes, the defects;
that was it, of course, the defects; that
phrase, he felt, at least, was sincere
"Only after careful deliberation-at last
unwillingly compelled to come to the
conclusion-present state of the public
taste-certain practical considerations
inevitably to be consideration the
whole-again thanking you" More
and more hastily, as he neared the end,
Vaughan read, almost with feeling of
physical disgust. Then he tossed the
letter on his desk, and stood, with folded
arms, looking out once more into the
silent street, where the shadows were
beginning to fall deeper and deeper,
merging gradually into the dusk of twi-
light. At last he spoke. II wouldn't
care" he said, "if it was bad work; If
1t was work that I'd sighted; IL it was
work I'd done In hurry, letting word
and a phrase go when l knew that
somewhere, If / hunted long enough, I
could find the one that really fitted.
But ii isn't like that. ! can't reproach
myself. It's been three years of the
best I've got in me. Everything in the
world / know of STYLE every bit of in
cldent ! wanted, every turn and twist
of character. 1t isn't vanity: 1t isn't
conceit; | don't care who wrote the
book; it's good, and / know it's good;
and yet to have them, one after the
other
Practical, prosaic, monotonous,
doomed the supper gong. With a sorry
laugh, Vaughan turned from the win
dow. and then paused, irresolute. Must
he go down again, as he had done so
many times before; to compare himself,
as he knew that in his present mood he
so inevitably must, to his fellow dodgers
around the well-worn board. The clerk
in the downtown bank, the dapper
young shoe salesman, the would-be hui
morist, who made no secret of the fact
that he was pulling down fifty week
out of his knock 'em silly" insect
powder. the old graybeard who tottered
away each moring to haunt the read
ing-room of the public library, staying
there the livelong day until he tottered
home again at night-look at it as he
would, one fact remained: these men,
all of them however much he might see
in them to criticize, were, each in his
way, successful men. Each, in his
turn, to do them full justice, had