New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1914-04-12

/. away. Then he proceeded to pack up his
belongings: not a very detailed affair
Manuscripts. He rifled the pages rue
fullv,-sonncts and chant-royaleS and epics,
fine and lofty in spirit; so fine indeed that
they easily Sifted through every editorial
office in London. There was even a bulky
romance. He had read so much about the
enormous royalties that American authors
received for their work and English authors
who were popular on the other side that
his ambition had been trenetically stirred.
The fortunes such men as Numbering and
Pifle and Drool made And all he had ac
conplished so far had been the earnest sup
mort of the postal service Far back at the
beginning he had been unfortunate enough
10 sell a sonnet for ten shillings. Alackl
You sell your first sonnet, you win your first
hand al cards. and then the passion has you.
Poetry was a drug on the market. No
body read it (or wrote it, these days; and
anyone who attempted TO sell It was clearly
mad. Oh, a Jingle for a Punch might
pass. YOU know; something clever, with
snapper TO it. But epic poetry? SonnetS?
Whv. didn't you know there wasn't maya
zine going that did not have some subedltor
who could Whack out fourteen lines IN tour
teen minutes. whenever a page needed filling
uD3 These things he had been told times
without number. And Numbering, Pifiie,
and Drool had long since cornered the 70
nance market The Kings Highway had
become No Thoroughfare.
America He would go to the land Of the
brave when occasion demanded and the
free If YOU were imaginative. Having
packed his trunk and valise, he departed for
Liverpool Besides, America was all that
was left: he was at the end Of his rope
What a rollicking old fraud life was.
Swung out of his peaceful orbit by the leger-
denain of Death; no longer a humble,
steady star but a meteor; humping as yet
darklv against the planets; and then this
monumental folly which had returned him
to the old orbit, but still in meteorc form,
without peace or means Of livelihood. An
ass. if ever there was one,
He eventually arrived at his destination,
lied blithely to the chief steward, and was
assigned to the first-class cabins on the
promenade deck, simply because his man
ner was engaging and his face pleasing to
the eve. The sea? He had never been
upon it but once and then only in row.
boat. A good sailor? Perhaps. Chicken
and barley broths at eleven; the Captain 5
table in the dining saloon, breakfast, lunch
con. and dinner; cabin housekeeper and
luggage man at the ports; and always a
natty, stiffly starched jacket with a metal
number; and "Yes, Sir and "No, Sir" and
"Thank YOU, SIR his official vocabulary
fine job for poet
1t was all in the game he was going to
play with Fate. A chap who could sell
hamingo ties to gentlemen with purple
noses and shirts with reversible cuffs TO coal
porters ought not to worry over such a sim
pie employment as cabin steward on board
an ocean liner.
EARLY the next morning they left port,
Il with only a few first -class passengers.
The heavy travel was coming from the west,
not going that way. The series OF cabins
under his stewardship were vacant There
fore, with the thoroughness of his breed, he
set about to learn ship, and by the time
the first bugle for dinner blew he knew port
from starboard, boat deck from main, and
many other things unknown to the chief
steward, who had made a hundred and
twenty voyages on this very ship.