IRENE GREY
Men of the type of Jean Baptiste don't waver and despair regardless as
to how discouraged they may at times, under adverse circumstances,
become. When he was confronted with the law with the papers to take from
him the stock with which to seed his crop, his mental faculties became
busy, and in the course of two hours he had been granted an extension on
the note and the deputy sheriff had returned to Winner as he had come,
empty handed.
But _what was he to do_! He had no money and no credit. He had the land
in Tripp County that was broken into winter wheat, while that in the
next county east was rented. He could, of course, rent some more land
and put it to crop; but he was for the present through with any more
large crops until the seasons became more normal. So he was at a loss
how to engage himself for the months that were coming. He still lived on
his wife's homestead, and had no plans and nowhere else to live. In
these days he found reading a great diversion. He simply devoured books,
studying every detail of construction, and learning a great deal as to
style and effect.
Then he tried writing short stories, but like the book manuscript, they
always came back. He concluded after a time that it was a waste of
postage to send them around; that in truth they were not read--and
again, that there was no fortune in writers' royalties always, anyhow.
He was possessed with a business turn of mind, and one day he met a man
who told him that it was possible for him to have his book printed and
be his own publisher. That sounded very good--anything sounded good in
these dark days in the life of Jean Baptiste. This was a splendid idea.
But it was some time before he was able to find the proper persons with
whom to take this up. But, he finally secured the address of a company
who would manufacture a book to exceed 300 pages for fifty cents per
book. Although this was the most encouraging thing he had encountered in
his literary effort, the price seemed very high in view of what he had
been told. He had planned that it could be made for much less. However
he decided to consider it.
Now Jean Baptiste had less means at hand than he had ever had in his
life. Not a dollar did he possess--not even did he have a suit of
clothes any more, and wore every day his corduroys. He owed the
promoters of the old townsite of Dallas more than he was likely to pay
very soon, but they still were his friends. But to get to Dallas, fifty
miles away, was still another problem. He went to a bank in the little
town where he had other friends from whom he had never asked credit.
They loaned him what he asked for, $5.00. With this he went to Dallas.
The senior member of the firm was in town--that is, senior in age but
not in position. Jean Baptiste possessed great personality, and to be
near one was to effect that one with it.
"I believe you could do alright with that book, Baptiste," this one said
when Baptiste had told him regarding the company who would put it out
for him.
"Yes, I am confident I can, too, Graydon," replied Baptiste. "But I am
clean, dead broke. I can't go down there."
The other was silent for a moment as he stood wrapped in thought.
Presently he said:
"How much do you have to have to go down there?"
"Oh, thirty-five or forty dollars."
"I'll let you have fifty."
"I'm ready at any minute," so saying, he went to a store across the
street where he had friends, and there was dressed from head to foot,
charging the clothes to his account. Two days later he walked into the
office of the printing firm with which he had been in correspondence.
They were rather surprised when they saw that he was an Ethiopian, but
he soon put them at ease.
After several days' of negotiating they finally reached an agreement
whereby they would manufacture one thousand copies at seventy-five cents
per copy. He was to pay one third of the amount before the book went to
press, the balance he was to pay within a reasonable time. An outrageous
price, he knew--at least felt. But he was to have all subsequent
editions for one half the amount of the original edition, which was some
consolation to look forward to.
Another fence: who would furnish that two hundred and fifty dollars and
secure him for the remainder? Besides, what would he do with the books
when he had them? Publishing meant distribution. But what did he know of
such? He thought these things over carefully and finally decided that he
would sell them himself. He communicated this fact to the firm. It was
rather unusual for an author, perhaps, to sell his own works. Jean
Baptiste had never sold anything by solicitation since he had grown up,
but when he was young he had been a great peddler of garden vegetables.
He would sell his book, and he seemed to convince them that he could.
They prepared some prospectuses for him, and back home he returned. He
told, in answer to the volumes of inquiries that everything was all
right, and that the book would appear soon. He said nothing, however, to
the friends he had in view to put up the money and that necessary
security. He believed in proving a thing, and all else would necessarily
follow. He would go out and secure orders there at home among his
friends and acquaintances. But the day he planned to start was very
cold--the mercury stood twenty-seven below zero.
Starting in Dallas he received orders for one hundred forty-two copies
the first day. Very good for a starter. He went to Winner the next day.
Despite the fact that the drought had done no good to the people of that
community and town, they all were acquainted with and admired Jean
Baptiste. Besides, they would not see Dallas beat them. And one hundred
fifty-three copies were ordered by them.
Jean Baptiste could prove anything in a fair fight if given a chance. He
secured orders for fifteen hundred copies of his book in two weeks. The
promoters went his security and put up the cash into the bargain, and he
went back to the publishing house victorious.
The printers had evidenced their confidence in him, for they had been so
impressed with his personality that they had begun work upon the copy
when he returned. In thirty days it was ready, and in sixty days from
the time he was penniless, he had deposited twenty-five hundred dollars
to the credit of the book in the banks.
As he was winding up his business preparatory to interviewing his
printers, establishing an office and going into the book business for a
livelihood, he was the recipient of a telegram from Washington advising
that the Honorable Secretary of the Interior had reversed the
commissioner's decision, which had been adverse to his wife, with regard
to the claim. He had won, but as to how he would ever prove up he
didn't know, nor did he let it worry him. He was too flushed with
success in his new field. He could still hold the claim, but it would be
his wife who must offer proof on the same, and his wife he had not heard
from for over a year.
He did not find his new field of endeavor so profitable when he began to
work among strangers. Indeed, while he did business the money didn't
seem to come in as it should. He conceived an idea of securing agents
among the colored people, and in that way effect a good sale. To begin
with, this was difficult, for the reason the black man's environment has
not been conducive to the art of selling anything except those things
that require little or no wide knowledge. They deal largely in hair
goods to make their curls grow or hang straighter,--or in complexion
creams to clarify and whiten the skin. Yet he succeeded in getting many
to take the agency and these received orders and sent for the books. He
had learned that it was a custom with subscription book companies to
allow agents to have the books and give them thirty days in which to
remit the money. This proved agreeable to his agents. However, the
greater number of them took not only thirty days--but life, and did not
send in the money when they died.
He was confronted then with the task of learning how he could get the
books to them and be assured of his money. To learn this, he went on the
road himself appointing agents and selling to bookstores. And it was
upon this journey that he met one who had played a little part in his
life some years before, at a time when conditions had been entirely
different with him.
In Kansas City she occurred to him. He recalled that it was only twelve
miles from the city where her father owned and lived upon one of the
greatest farms in the country. He thought of the last letter he had
received from her, the letter that had come too late. And then he
thought of what had passed since. Girls in her circumstances would not
be likely to waste their sympathies with grasswidowers; but he wished
that he might see her and look just once into the eyes that might have
been his. But his courage failed him. He still had spirit and pride, so
he gave it up for the time.
Late in the afternoon of that day, he was engaged with some
acquaintances in the bar-room of a club. They became quite jolly as
cocktails and red liquor flowed and tingled their veins. He thought
again of Irene Grey, and the memory was exhilarating. And the cocktails
gave him the necessary courage. He was bold at last and to the telephone
he went and called her over long distance.
"Is this the Greys home?" he called.
"Yes," came back the answer, and he was thrilled at the mellowness of
the voice at the other end.
"Is Miss Irene at home?" he called now.
"Yes," it said. "This is she."
He was sobered. All the effect of the cocktails went out of him on the
instant. He choked blindly, groped for words, and finally said:
"Why--er--ah--this is a friend of yours. An old friend. Mayhap you have
forgotten me."
"I don't know," she called back. "Who are you?"
He still didn't have the courage to tell her, but sought to make himself
known by explaining. He then mentioned the state from whence he came,
but no further did he get. It so happened that she had heard all about
his troubles following his marriage, and, womanlike, feeling that she
had been in a way displaced by the other, she had always been anxious to
meet and know him.
"Oh," she cried, and the echo of her voice rang in his ears over the
wire for some moments. "Is this you?" she cried now, her voice
evidencing the excitement she was laboring under.
"Yes," he admitted somewhat awkwardly, not knowing whether the fact had
thrilled and joyed her, or, whether he was in for a rebuke for calling
her up. But he was speedily reassured.
"Then why don't you come on out here?" she cried.
"I--I didn't know whether I would be welcome," he replied, happy in a
new way.
"Oh, pshaw! Why _wouldn't_ you be welcome? But now," her tone changed.
"Where are you?"
"In Kansas City."
"Let me see," she said, and he knew she was thinking. "It is now four
thirty, and a train leaves there that passes through here in forty
minutes. It doesn't stop here; but you catch it and go to the station
above here, do you understand?"
"Yes, yes," he replied eagerly.
"Well, now, listen! The station I refer to is only four miles above
this, and when you get off there, catch another train that comes in a
few minutes back this way, see?"
"Yes, yes."
"Well, that train stops at this station, and there I will meet you."
"Oh, fine," he cried. "I'll be there."
"Now you will be sure to catch it," she cautioned.
"Most assuredly!"
"I will depend on it."
"Count me there!"
"I want to talk to you, I'm going to talk all night."
"Good-by."