Mr. Johnson Ringamy, the author, sat in his library gazing idly out of
the window. The view was very pleasant, and the early morning sun
brought out in strong relief the fresh greenness of the trees that now
had on their early spring suits of foliage. Mr. Ringamy had been a busy
man, but now, if he cared to take life easy, he might do so, for few
books had had the tremendous success of his latest work. Mr. Ringamy
was thinking about this, when the door opened, and a tall,
intellectual-looking young man entered from the study that communicated
with the library. He placed on the table the bunch of letters he had in
his hand, and, drawing up a chair, opened a blank notebook that had,
between the leaves, a lead pencil sharpened at both ends.
"Good morning, Mr. Scriver," said the author, also hitching up his
chair towards the table. He sighed as he did so, for the fair spring
prospect from the library window was much more attractive than the task
of answering an extensive correspondence.
"Is there a large mail this morning, Scriver?"
"A good-sized one, sir. Many of them, however, are notes asking for
your autograph."
"Enclose stamps, do they?"
"Most of them, sir; those that did not, I threw in the waste basket."
"Quite right. And as to the autographs you might write them this
afternoon, if you have time."
"I have already done so, sir. I flatter myself that even your most
intimate friend could not tell my version of your autograph from your
own."
As he said this, the young man shoved towards the author a letter which
he had written, and Mr. Ringamy looked at it critically.
"Very good, Scriver, very good indeed. In fact, if I were put in the
witness-box I am not sure that I would be able to swear that this was
not my signature. What's this you have said in the body of the letter
about sentiment? Not making me write anything sentimental, I hope. Be
careful, my boy, I don't want the newspapers to get hold of anything
that they could turn into ridicule. They are too apt to do that sort of
thing if they get half a chance."
"Oh, I think you will find that all right," said the young man; "still
I thought it best to submit it to you before sending it off. You see
the lady who writes has been getting up a 'Ringamy Club' in Kalamazoo,
and she asks you to give her an autographic sentiment which they will
cherish as the motto of the club. So I wrote the sentence, 'All classes
of labor should have equal compensation.' If that won't do, I can
easily change it.'
"Oh, that will do first rate--first rate."
"Of course it is awful rot, but I thought it would please the feminine
mind."
"Awful _what_ did you say, Mr. Scriver?"
"Well, slush--if that expresses it better. Of course, you don't believe
any such nonsense."
Mr. Johnson Ringamy frowned as he looked at his secretary.
"I don't think I understand you," he said, at last.
"Well, look here, Mr. Ringamy, speaking now, not as a paid servant to
his master, but----"
"Now, Scriver, I won't have any talk like that. There is no master or
servant idea between us. There oughtn't to be between anybody. All men
are free and equal."
"They are in theory, and in my eye, as I might say if I wanted to make
it more expressive."
"Scriver, I cannot congratulate you on your expressive language, if I
may call it so. But we are wandering from the argument. You were going
to say that speaking as----Well, go on."
"I was going to say that, speaking as one reasonably sensible man to
another, without any gammon about it; don't you think it is rank
nonsense to hold that one class of labor should be as well compensated
as another. Honestly now?"
The author sat back in his chair and gazed across the table at his
secretary. Finally, he said:
"My dear Scriver, you can't really mean what you say. You know that I
hold that all classes of labor should have exactly the same
compensation. The miner, the blacksmith, the preacher, the postal
clerk, the author, the publisher, the printer--yes, the man who sweeps
out the office, or who polishes boots, should each share alike, if this
world were what it should be--yes, and what it _will_ be. Why,
Scriver, you surely couldn't have read my book----"
"Read it? why, hang it, I _wrote_ it."
"You wrote it? The deuce you did! I always thought I was the author of
----"
"So you are. But didn't I take it all down in shorthand, and didn't I
whack it out on the type-writer, and didn't I go over the proof sheets
with you. And yet you ask me if I have read it!"
"Oh, yes, quite right, I see what you mean. Well, if you paid as much
attention to the arguments as you did to the mechanical production of
the book, I should think you would not ask if I really meant what I
said."
"Oh, I suppose you meant it all right enough--in a way--in theory,
perhaps, but----"
"My dear sir, allow me to say that a theory which is not practical, is
simply no theory at all. The great success of 'Gazing Upward,' has been
due to the fact that it is an eminently practical work. The
nationalization of everything is not a matter of theory. The ideas
advocated in that book, can be seen at work at any time. Look at the
Army, look at the Post Office."
"Oh, that's all right, looking at things in bulk. Let us come down to
practical details. Detail is the real test of any scheme. Take this
volume, 'Gazing Upward.' Now, may I ask how much this book has netted
you up to date?"
"Oh, I don't know exactly. Somewhere in the neighborhood of £20,000."
"Very well then. Now let us look for a moment at the method by which
that book was produced. You walked up and down this room with your
hands behind your back, and dictated chapter after chapter, and I sat
at this table taking it all down in shorthand. Then you went out and
took the air while I industriously whacked it out on the type-writer."
"I wish you wouldn't say 'whacked,' Scriver. That's twice you've used
it."
"All right:--typographical error--For 'whacked' read 'manipulated.'
Then you looked over the type-written pages, and I erased and wrote in
and finally got out a perfect copy. Now I worked as hard--probably
harder--than you did, yet the success of that book was entirely due to
you, and not to me. Therefore it is quite right that you should get
£20,000 and that I should get two pounds a week. Come now, isn't it?
Speaking as a man of common sense."
"Speaking exactly in that way I say no it is not right. If the world
were properly ruled the compensation of author and secretary would have
been exactly the same."
"Oh, well, if you go so far as that," replied the Secretary, "I have
nothing more to say."
The author laughed, and the two men bent their energies to the
correspondence. When the task was finished, Scriver said:
"I would like to get a couple of days off, Mr. Ringamy. I have some
private business to attend to."
"When could you get back?"
"I'll report to you on Thursday morning."
"Very well, then. Not later than Thursday. I think I'll take a couple
of days off myself."
* * * * *
On Thursday morning Mr. Johnson Ringamy sat in his library looking out
of the window, but the day was not as pleasant as when he last gazed at
the hills, and the woods, and green fields. A wild spring storm lashed
the landscape, and rattled the raindrops against the pane. Mr. Ringamy
waited for some time and then opened the study door and looked in. The
little room was empty. He rang the bell, and the trim servant-girl
appeared.
"Has Mr. Scriver come in yet?"
"No, sir, he haven't."
"Perhaps the rain has kept him."
"Mr. Scriver said that when you come back, sir, there was a letter on
the table as was for you."
"Ah, so there is. Thank you, that will do."
The author opened the letter and read as follows:
"MY DEAR MR. RINGAMY,--Your arguments the other day fully convinced me
that you were right, and I was wrong ("Ah! I thought they would,"
murmured the author). I have therefore taken a step toward putting your
theories into practice. The scheme is an old one in commercial life,
but new in its present application, so much so that I fear it will find
no defenders except yourself, and I trust that now when I am far away
("Dear me, what does this mean!" cried the author) you will show any
doubters that I acted on the principles which will govern the world
when the theories of 'Gazing Upward' are put into practice. For fear
that all might not agree with you at present, I have taken the
precaution of going to that undiscovered country, from whose bourne no
extradition treaty forces the traveler to return--sunny Spain. You said
you could not tell my rendition of your signature from your own.
Neither could the bank cashier. My exact mutation of your signature has
enabled me to withdraw £10,000 from your bank account. Half the
profits, you know. You can send future accumulations, for the book will
continue to sell, to the address of
"ADAM SCRIVER.
_"Poste Restant, Madrid, Spain"_
Mr. Ringamy at once put the case in the hands of the detectives, where
it still remains.