The Complete Short Stories. O. Hooper Henry

fishing might go. But how about this write-up of the Atlanta, New Orleans, Nashville, and Savannah breweries? It seems to consist mainly of statistics about their output and the quality of their beer. What’s the chip over the bug?”

      “If I understand your figurative language,” answered Colonel Telfair, “it is this: the article you refer to was handed to me by the owners of the magazine with instructions to publish it. The literary quality of it did not appeal to me. But, in a measure, I feel impelled to conform, in certain matters, to the wishes of the gentlemen who are interested in the financial side of The Rose.”

      “I see,” said Thacker. “Next we have two pages of selections from ‘Lalla Rookh,’ by Thomas Moore. Now, what Federal prison did Moore escape from, or what’s the name of the F.F.V. family that he carries as a handicap?”

      “Moore was an Irish poet who died in 1852,” said Colonel Telfair, pityingly. “He is a classic. I have been thinking of reprinting his translation of Anacreon serially in the magazine.”

      “Look out for the copyright laws,” said Thacker, flippantly. Who’s Bessie Belleclair, who contributes the essay on the newly completed water-works plant in Milledgeville?”

      “The name, sir,” said Colonel Telfair, “is the nom de guerre of Miss Elvira Simpkins. I have not the honor of knowing the lady; but her contribution was sent to us by Congressman Brower, of her native state. Congressman Brower’s mother was related to the Polks of Tennessee.

      “Now, see here, Colonel,” said Thacker, throwing down the magazine, “this won’t do. You can’t successfully run a magazine for one particular section of the country. You’ve got to make a universal appeal. Look how the Northern publications have catered to the South and encouraged the Southern writers. And you’ve got to go far and wide for your contributors. You’ve got to buy stuff according to its quality without any regard to the pedigree of the author. Now, I’ll bet a quart of ink that this Southern parlor organ you’ve been running has never played a note that originated above Mason & Hamlin’s line. Am I right?”

      “I have carefully and conscientiously rejected all contributions from that section of the country — if I understand your figurative language aright,” replied the colonel.

      “All right. Now I’ll show you something.”

      Thacker reached for his thick manila envelope and dumped a mass of typewritten manuscript on the editors desk.

      “Here’s some truck,” said he, “that I paid cash for, and brought along with me.”

      One by one he folded back the manuscripts and showed their first pages to the colonel.

      Here are four short stories by four of the highest priced authors in the United States — three of ’em living in New York, and one commuting. There’s a special article on Vienna-bred society by Tom Vampson. Here’s an Italian serial by Captain Jack — no — it’s the other Crawford. Here are three separate exposés of city governments by Sniffings, and here’s a dandy entitled ‘What Women Carry in Dress-Suit Cases’ — a Chicago newspaper woman hired herself out for five years as a lady’s maid to get that information. And here’s a Synopsis of Preceding Chapters of Hall Caine’s new serial to appear next June. And here’s a couple of pounds of vers de société that I got at a rate from the clever magazines. That’s the stuff that people everywhere want. And now here’s a write-up with photographs at the ages of four, twelve, twenty-two, and thirty of George B. McClellan. It’s a prognostication. He’s bound to be elected Mayor of New York. It’ll make a big hit all over the country. He—”

      “I beg your pardon,” said Colonel Telfair, stiffening in his chair. “What was the name?”

      “Oh, I see,” said Thacker, with half a grin. Yes, he’s a son of the General. We’ll pass that manuscript up. But, if you’ll excuse me, Colonel, it’s a magazine we’re trying to make go off — not the first gun at Fort Sumter. Now, here’s a thing that’s bound to get next to you. It’s an original poem by James Whitcomb Riley. J. W. himself. You know what that means to a magazine. I won’t tell you what I had to pay for that poem; but I’ll tell you this — Riley can make more money writing with a fountain-pen than you or I can with one that lets the ink run. I’ll read you the last two stanzas:

      “‘Pa lays around ‘n’ loafs all day,

       ‘N’ reads and makes us leave him be.

       He lets me do just like I please,

       ‘N’ when I’m bad he laughs at me,

       ‘N’ when I holler loud ‘n’ say

       Bad words ‘n’ then begin to tease

       The cat, ‘n’ pa just smiles, ma’s mad

       ‘N’ gives me Jesse crost her knees.

       I always wondered why that wuz —

       I guess it’s cause

       Pa never does.

      “‘‘N’ after all the lights are out

       I’m sorry ‘bout it; so I creep

       Out of my trundle bed to ma’s

       ‘N’ say I love her a whole heap,

       ‘N’ kiss her, ‘n’ I hug her tight.

       ‘N’ it’s too dark to see her eyes,

       But every time I do I know

       She cries ‘n’ cries ‘n’ cries ‘n’ cries.

       I always wondered why that wuz —

       I guess it’s ‘cause

       Pa never does.’

      “That’s the stuff,” continued Thacker. “What do you think of that?”

      “I am not unfamiliar with the works of Mr. Riley,” said the colonel, deliberately. “I believe he lives in Indiana. For the last ten years I have been somewhat of a literary recluse, and am familiar with nearly all the books in the Cedar Heights library. I am also of the opinion that a magazine should contain a certain amount of poetry. Many of the sweetest singers of the South have already contributed to the pages of The Rose of Dixie. I, myself, have thought of translating from the original for publication in its pages the works of the great Italian poet Tasso. Have you ever drunk from the fountain of this immortal poet’s lines, Mr. Thacker?”

      “Not even a demi-Tasso,” said Thacker. Now, let’s come to the point, Colonel Telfair. I’ve already invested some money in this as a flyer. That bunch of manuscripts cost me $4,000. My object was to try a number of them in the next issue — I believe you make up less than a month ahead — and see what effect it has on the circulation. I believe that by printing the best stuff we can get in the North, South, East, or West we can make the magazine go. You have there the letter from the owning company asking you to cooperate with me in the plan. Let’s chuck out some of this slush that you’ve been publishing just because the writers are related to the Skoopdoodles of Skoopdoodle County. Are you with me?”

      “As long as I continue to be the editor of The Rose,” said Colonel Telfair, with dignity, “I shall be its editor. But I desire also to conform to the wishes of its owners if I can do so conscientiously.”

      “That’s the talk,” said Thacker, briskly. “Now, how much of this stuff I’ve brought can we get into the January number? We want to begin right away.”

      “There is yet space in the January number,” said the editor, “for about eight thousand words, roughly estimated.”

      “Great!” said Thacker. “It isn’t much, but it’ll give the readers some change from goobers, governors, and Gettysburg. I’ll leave the selection of the stuff I brought to fill the space to you, as it’s all good. I’ve got to run back to New York, and I’ll be down again in a couple of weeks.”

      Colonel Telfair slowly swung his eyeglasses by their broad, black ribbon.

      “The