The distant street door opened at last, and a gentleman came in. His
entrance caused an indefinite sensation in the clerks, such as we all
feel in the presence of the man who pays our wages. At the sound of his
step, Ray’s street friend turned about from his shelf, but without
offering to leave it.
“Ah, good-morning, good-morning!” he called out; and the other called
back, “Ah, good-morning, Mr. Kane!” and pushed on up towards a door near
that of Ray’s retreat. A clerk stopped him, and after a moment’s parley
he came in upon the young fellow. He was a man of fifty-five or sixty,
with whiskers slightly frosted, and some puckers and wrinkles about his
temples and at the corners of his mouth, and a sort of withered bloom in
his cheeks, something like the hardy self-preservation of the
late-hanging apple that people call a frozen-thaw. He was a thin man,
who seemed once to have been stouter; he had a gentle presence and a
somewhat careworn look.
“Mr. Brandreth?” Ray said, rising.
“No,” said the other; “Mr. Chapley.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Ray. “They showed me into Mr. Brandreth’s
room, and I thought”--
“It’s quite right, quite right,” said Mr. Chapley. “Mr. Brandreth will
be in almost any moment if you wish to see him personally.” Mr. Chapley
glanced at the parcel in Ray’s hand.
“Oh no; I have a letter for the firm,” and Ray gave it to Mr. Chapley,
who read it through and then offered his hand, and said he was glad to
meet Mr. Ray. He asked some questions of commonplace friendliness about
his correspondent, and he said, with the kind of melancholy which seemed
characteristic of him: “So you have come to take a hand in the great
game here. Well, if there is anything I can do to serve you, I shall be
very glad.”
Ray answered promptly, in pursuance of his plan: “You are very kind, Mr.
Chapley. I’m going to write letters to the paper I’ve been connected
with in Midland, and I wish to give them largely a literary character. I
shall be obliged to you for any literary news you have.”
Mr. Chapley seemed relieved of a latent dread. A little knot of anxiety
between his eyes came untied; he did not yet go to the length of laying
off his light overcoat, but he set his hat down on Mr. Brandreth’s desk,
and he loosed the grip he had kept of his cane.
“Why, Mr. Brandreth rather looks after that side of the business. He’s
more in touch with the younger men--with what’s going on, in fact, than
I am. He can tell you all there is about our own small affairs, and put
you in relations with other publishers, if you wish.”
“Thank you--” Ray began.
“Not at all; it will be to our advantage, I’m sure. We should be glad to
do much more for any friend of our old friends”--Mr. Chapley had to
refer to the letter-head of the introduction before he could make sure
of his old friends’ style--“Schmucker & Wills. I hope they are
prospering in these uncertain times?”
Ray said they were doing very well, he believed, and Mr. Chapley went
on.
“So many of the local booksellers are feeling the competition of the
large stores which have begun to deal in books as well as everything
else under the sun, nowadays. I understand they have completely
disorganized the book trade in some of our minor cities; completely!
They take hold of a book like _Robert Elsmere_, for instance, as if it
were a piece of silk that they control the pattern of, and run it at a
price that is simply ruinous; besides doing a large miscellaneous
business in books at rates that defy all competition on the part of the
regular dealers. But perhaps you haven’t suffered from these commercial
monstrosities yet in Midland?”
“Oh, yes,” said Ray; “We have our local Stewart’s or Macy’s, whichever
it is; and I imagine Schmucker & Wills feel it, especially at the
holidays.” He had never had to buy any books himself, because he got the
copies sent to the _Echo_ for review; and now, in deference to Mr.
Chapley, he was glad that he had not shared in the demoralization of the
book trade. “But I think,” he added, cheerfully, “that they are holding
their own very well.”
“I am very glad to hear it, very glad, indeed,” said Mr. Chapley. “If we
can only get this international copyright measure through and dam up the
disorganizing tide of cheap publications at its source, we may hope to
restore the tone of the trade. As it is, we are ourselves constantly
restricting our enterprise as publishers. We scarcely think now of
looking at the manuscript of an unknown author.”
Mr. Chapley looked at the manuscript of the unknown author before him,
as if he divined it through its wrappings of stiff manilla paper. Ray
had no reason to think that he meant to prevent a possible offer of
manuscript, but he could not help thinking so, and it cut him short in
the inquiries he was going to make as to the extent of the
demoralization the book trade had suffered through the competition of
the large variety stores. He had seen a whole letter for the _Echo_ in
the subject, but now he could not go on. He sat blankly staring at Mr.
Chapley’s friendly, pensive face, and trying to decide whether he had
better get himself away without seeing Mr. Brandreth, or whether he had
better stay and meet him, and after a cold, formal exchange of
civilities, shake the dust of Chapley & Co.’s publishing house from his
feet forever. The distant street door opened again, and a small light
figure, much like his own, entered briskly. Mr. Kane turned about at the
new-comer’s step as he had turned at Mr. Chapley’s, and sent his
cheerful hail across the book counters as before. “Ah, good-morning,
good-morning!”
“Good-morning, Mr. Kane; magnificent day,” said the gentleman, who
advanced rapidly towards Ray and Mr. Chapley, with a lustrous silk hat
on his head, and a brilliant smile on his face. His overcoat hung on his
arm, and he looked fresh and warm as if from a long walk. “Ah,
good-morning,” he said to Mr. Chapley; “how are you this morning, sir?”
He bent his head inquiringly towards Ray, who stood a moment while Mr.
Chapley got himself together and said:
“This is Mr.--ah--Ray, who brings a letter from our old friends”--he had
to glance at the letter-head--“Schmucker & Wills, of--Midland.”
“Ah! Midland! yes,” said Mr. Brandreth, for Ray felt it was he, although
his name had not been mentioned yet. “Very glad to see you, Mr. Ray.
When did you leave Midland? Won’t you sit down? And you, Mr. Chapley?”
“No, no,” said Mr. Chapley, nervously. “I was going to my own room. How
is poor Bella this morning?”
“Wonderfully well, wonderfully! I waited for the doctor’s visit before I
left home, so as to report reliably, and he says he never saw a better
convalescence. He promises to let her go out in a fortnight or so, if
the weather’s good.”
“You must be careful! Don’t go too fast!” said Mr. Chapley. “And
the--child?”
“Perfectly splendid! He slept like a top last night, and we could hardly
get him awake for breakfast.”
“Poor thing!” said Mr. Chapley. He offered Ray his hand, and said that
he hoped they should see him often; he must drop in whenever he was
passing. “Mr. Ray,” he explained, “has come on to take up his residence
in New York. He remains connected with one of the papers in--Midland;
and I have been referring him to you for literary gossip, and that kind
of thing.”
“All right, sir, all right!” said Mr. Brandreth. He laughed out after
Mr. Chapley had left them, and then said: “Excuse me, Mr. Ray. You
mustn’t mind my smiling rather irrelevantly. We’ve had a great event at
my house this week--in fact, we’ve had a boy.”
“Indeed!” said Ray. He had the sort of contempt a young man feels for
such domestic events; but he easily concealed it from the happy father,
who looked scarcely older than himself.
“An eight-pounder,” said Mr. Brandreth. “I have been pretty anxious for
the last few weeks, and--I don’t know whether you married or not, Mr.
Ray?”
“No.”
“Well, then you wouldn’t understand.” Mr. Brandreth arrested himself
reluctantly, Ray thought, in his confidences. “But you will, some day;
you will, some day,” he added, gayly; “and then you’ll know what it is
to have an experience like that go off well. It throws a new light on
everything.” A clerk came in with a pile of opened letters and put them
on Mr. Brandreth’s desk, with some which were still sealed; Ray rose
again. “No, don’t go. But you won’t mind my glancing these over while we
talk. I don’t know how much talk you’ve been having with Mr.
Chapley--he’s my father-in-law, you know?”
Ray owned that he did not.
“Yes; I came into the firm and into the family a little over a year ago.
But if there are any points I can give you, I’m quite at your service.”
“Thank you,” said Ray. “Mr. Chapley was speaking of the effect of the
competition of the big variety stores on the regular booksellers.”
Mr. Brandreth slitted the envelope of one of the letters with a slim
paper-knife, and glanced the letter over. “Well, that’s a little matter
I differ with Mr. Chapley about. Of course, I know just how he feels,
brought up the way he was, in the old traditions of the trade. It seems
to him we must be going to the bad because our books are sold over a
counter next to a tin-ware counter, or a perfume and essence counter, or
a bric-à-brac counter. I don’t think so. I think the great thing is to
sell the books, and I wish we could get a book into the hands of one of
those big dealers; I should be glad of the chance. We should have to
make him a heavy discount; but look at the discounts we have to make to
the trade, now! Forty per cent., and ten cents off for cash; so that a
dollar and a half book, that it costs twenty-five cents or thirty cents
to make, brings you in about seventy cents. Then, when you pay the
author his ten per cent. copyright, how far will the balance go towards
advertising, rent, clerk hire and sundries? If you want to get a book
into the news companies, you have got to make them a discount of sixty
per cent. out of hand.”
“Is it possible?” asked Ray. “I’d no idea it was anything like that!”
“No; people haven’t. They think publishers are rolling in riches at the
expense of the author and the reader. And some publishers themselves
believe that if we could only keep up the old system of letting the
regular trade have the lion’s share on long credit, their prosperity
would be assured. I don’t, myself. If we could get hold of a good,
breezy, taking story, I’d like to try my chance with it in the hands of
some large dry-goods man.”
Ray’s heart thrilled. His own story had often seemed to him good and
taking; whether it was breezy or not, he had never thought. He wished he
knew just what Mr. Brandreth meant by breezy; but he did not like to ask
him. His hand twitched nervelessly on the manuscript in his lap, and he
said, timidly: “Would it be out of the way for me to refer to some of
these facts--they’re not generally known--in my letters? Of course not
using your name.”
“Not at all! I should be very glad to have them understood,” said Mr.
Brandreth.
“And what do you think is the outlook for the winter trade, Mr.
Brandreth?”
“Never better. I think we’re going to have a _good_ trade. We’ve got a
larger list than we’ve had for a great many years. The fact is,” said
Mr. Brandreth, and he gave a glance at Ray, as if he felt the trust the
youthful gravity of his face inspired in most people--“the fact is,
Chapley & Co. have been dropping too much out of sight, as publishers;
and I’ve felt, ever since I’ve been in the firm, that we ought to give
the public a sharp reminder that we’re not merely booksellers and
jobbers. I want the house to take its old place again. I don’t mean it’s
ever really lost caste, or that its imprint doesn’t stand for as much as
it did twenty years ago. I’ll just show you our list if you can wait a
moment.” Mr. Brandreth closed a pair of wooden mandibles lying on his
desk; an electric bell sounded in the distance, and a boy appeared. “You
go and ask Miss Hughes if she’s got that list of announcements ready
yet.” The boy went, and Mr. Brandreth took up one of the cards of the
firm. “If you would like to visit some of the other houses, Mr. Ray,
I’ll give you our card,” and he wrote on the card, “Introducing Mr. Ray,
of the Midland _Echo_. P. Brandreth,” and handed it to him. “Not Peter,
but Percy,” he said, with a friendly smile for his own pleasantry. “But
for business purposes it’s better to let them suppose it’s Peter.”
Ray laughed, and said he imagined so. He said he had always felt it a
disadvantage to have been named Shelley; but he could not write himself
P. B. S. Ray, and he usually signed simply S. Ray.
“Why, then, we really have the same first name,” said Mr. Brandreth.
“It’s rather an uncommon name, too. I’m very glad to share it with you,
Mr. Ray.” It seemed to add another tie to those that already bound them
in the sympathy of youth, and the publisher said, “I wish I could ask
you up to my house; but just now, you know, it’s really a nursery.”
“You are very kind,” said Ray. “I couldn’t think of intruding on you, of
course.”
Their exchange of civilities was checked by the return of the boy, who
said Miss Hughes would have the list ready in a few minutes.
“Well, just ask her to bring it here, will you?” said Mr. Brandreth. “I
want to speak to her about some of these letters.”
“I’m taking a great deal of your time, Mr. Brandreth,” Ray said.
“Not at all, not at all. I’m making a kind of holiday week of it,
anyway. I’m a good deal excited,” and Mr. Brandreth smiled so
benevolently that Ray could not help taking advantage of him.
The purpose possessed him almost before he was aware of its activity; he
thought he had quelled it, but now he heard himself saying in a stiff
unnatural voice, “I have a novel of my own, Mr. Brandreth, that I should
like to submit to you.”