THEM BLOOMIN' PUBLISHERS.
Before I say much more about New York I want to say a word about the
book publishers of that city, for I got to know a little something about
them. I will relate my experiences among them, which will enable others
to judge what they are like. I wanted to find a publisher for this book,
and was told that New York is the proper place to do business of that
kind.
The first publisher I attempted to do business with has a large
establishment on Vandewater Street, which is not far from the Brooklyn
Bridge. I asked an elevator man who stood in the hallway of this
building where I could find the boss.
"Which boss?" asked he, with a huge grin, for he probably deemed me some
country jay looking for a job. My appearance was not very
respect-inspiring, to say the truth; not for New York, anyway.
"The head of this establishment," answered I, placidly.
"What do you want to see him about? Are you looking for a job?"
"No, I'm not; I want to have some printing done."
"Oh, that's the ticket, is it? The superintendent is the man _you_ want
to see. He's on the top-floor. Come with me and I'll take you up to
him."
I stepped into the elevator and up we shot. We never stopped until we
struck the top landing, where a door confronted us which opened into a
huge apartment that was full of type-stands, presses, paper-cutters and
printing machinery of all sorts. At the furthest end of this huge
apartment were some offices.
Upon my entrance into the large apartment a man stepped up to me and
wanted to know what I wanted.
"I'd like to see the superintendent."
"Looking for a job, cully?" asked this gentleman.
"Well, hardly," responded I. "I want to have some printing done."
"Oh, you do, eh? You'll find the super in the rear office; away in the
back," and he waved his hand toward the rear.
I walked toward the rear and was met by a small boy, who came out of an
office and wanted to know my business.
"I want to see the superintendent, sonny," said I.
"What do you want to see him about?" asked the kid.
"Never you mind; I want to see him."
"Will you please let me have your card?"
"My card? What do you want my card for?"
"So as to let the boss know who you are."
"He don't know me; anyway, I haven't got a card."
"Will you please write your name and the nature of your business on this
tablet? and I'll take it to him," said the boy, handing me a writing
tablet and pencil.
I didn't understand this method of doing business but I did as
requested. The boy took the card in and presently the superintendent
appeared. His name was Axtell.
"What can I do for you?" promptly asked Mr. Axtell, without any
preliminaries. Probably he was a busy man.
"I have written a book, sir, and I want to have it printed."
The gent looked at me contemplatively. What his thoughts were I don't
know.
"What kind of a book is it you've written? History, travel, poetry,
novel or what?"
I told him it was a novel.
"How many pages will the book contain?" asked the superintendent.
"There will be four or five hundred pages, I guess, as near as I can
figure it," responded I.
"How many copies will you want?"
"I'll leave that to you, sir, for you know best. This is my first book,
and though I don't think it is going to set the world on fire," said I
modestly, "I think a first edition of about ten thousand copies would be
the thing. Don't you think that would do for a starter?"
"It might," said he contemplatively. "Excuse me," continued he as he
sat down at his desk and began to do some figuring. When he got through
he turned to me and said: "Ten thousand copies of the book in paper
cover will cost you in the neighborhood of $1000."
"Cost _me_ $1000," almost shrieked I. "I wanted to know what you'll give
me for the manuscript and print it yourself."
A cold glare froze in the gent's eye. "We only print 'reprint' here; we
do not buy manuscripts." I did not understand, and the gent judged so
from my demeanor, for he added: "You want to see a publisher. Go up to
Twenty-third Street; you'll find lots of them up that way."
I did not know the difference between a printer and a publisher at that
time, so that is how I came to make the mistake.
Up Twenty-third Street way I went. Twenty-third Street was a pretty
swell one, far too swell for rather a seedy-looking chap like me.
I came upon the establishment of Messrs. Graham & Sons, which was one
of the swellest on the street. It was contained in a six-story marble
building, all ornaments and furbelows in front, and it was so swell that
it made me feel small. The store must have been at least 200 feet long
and nearly as wide as it was long. A small part of this vast space was
divided off into offices, but by far the greater portion was devoted to
the exposure of books. Books were piled around till you couldn't
rest--on counters, shelves, in elaborate glass cases, and on the floor,
even. All were handsomely bound and good to look at. When I saw the
conglomeration my heart sank.
"Look at all this array, Windy," said I to myself; "where are you going
to get off at? You want to add another book to this little pile, do you?
You are all kinds of a fool."
For a few moments I was discouraged, but the feeling did not last long.
I am an optimist, a fellow who never gets discouraged. Instantly I
mustered courage and walked up to a white-haired old gentleman whom I
told that I would like to see the proprietor. The old gentleman told me
that he was in his office on the top floor of the building. Up I went to
see him. When I reached the top floor, which was a sort of literary
symposium and printing office combined, a small boy came forward and
asked me my business. I told him, whereupon he asked me for my card. As
I hadn't any, I wrote my name and the nature of my business on a tablet,
and the boy took it into an office. A well-groomed and handsome young
gentleman came forward and asked me to be seated. It was in an outer,
not walled-in office, but even the furniture in it was swell.
After exchanging airy compliments and discussing the weather a bit, the
gentleman remarked _en passant_, "You have written a book?"
That broke the ice. I told him I had and then we proceeded to business.
He wanted to know the nature of the book and such other things as were
well for him to know. I then asked a few questions myself.
"What do you pay authors for their books, Mr. Graham?"
"That depends," replied he. "We usually pay a royalty of $500 down and
ten per cent on every book sold, after that."
I thought that was a pretty fair rattle out of the box. I concluded to
leave my writings with Mr. Graham on those terms and he consented to
receive them. I knew he had but to read to accept. I always was
optimistic, as I said before. Mr. Graham requested me to leave my
address, so he could communicate with me. He informed me I would hear
from him in a few days. I did. In a few days I got a note from him in a
high-toned, crested envelope, which stated that "the first reader" of
the house had read the book and found good points in it, but that "the
second reader" was dubious. To make sure he, Mr. Graham, had read the
book himself and wasn't certain whether there was any money in it. Under
these circumstances he was constrained to forego the pleasure of
publication, etc., etc., etc. These were not his exact words, but their
substance. After reading the kind note I concluded to jump off the
Brooklyn Bridge, but thought better of it. Messrs. Graham & Sons were
not the only pebbles on the beach, so why not see what I could do
elsewhere. That's what I did--tried my luck elsewhere. There were other
publishers on Twenty-third Street and if Graham & Sons did not know a
good thing when they saw it, others might.
On the same block, only a few doors distant, was another large firm. To
them I went. A small little man with a Scotch accent sat in the
ante-room and asked me what I was after. He wanted my card, too, but
didn't get it. He went in to see Mr. Phillips, the editor of the
publishing house, and this gentleman turned me down in short order. He
told me that there are too many books published nowadays, and that books
of travel were a drug on the market. The cuss told me everything in the
world to discourage me, but he couldn't do it. I just went around to see
some of the other publishers, but none of them would "touch" the story
at any price and each one had a different reason for refusing. I was
unknown, poor and obscure, and that settled it. There was no show there
for me. To get along one must be rich or have "a pull."