You are such a girl now, among your slick friends in London, and
you are pulling such big stuff with your weekly columnising, that I
daresay you have forgotten your obscure Cowbarn epoch, and the junk
whose early chapters you had the honour (sic) of typing for your
first and most distinguished (sic) editor, with which the boob filled
in his spare hours. You used to tell him how good these opening
chapters were and the boob used to believe you. The consequence is
... well, this is the consequence. By the way, it was clever you
that invented the title, after we had shaken a leg--and you were
always some dancer--at that dive at the top of Second Street, one wet
afternoon.
Well, Mame, that title was lucky. _Prairie City_ has made good. It
has, if I may say it modestly, made quite surprisingly good. ’Tis
hardly six weeks since it was first issued here by Allardyce, Inc.,
but already it’s gone big. Early next month their London house will
publish it, and if it can repeat in England what it has done in
New York, the undersigned Elmer Pell Dobree is a permanent whale.
So go to it, Mame, you little go-getter. Corral the big drum and
get around the comic town of your adoption--worse luck!--and see if
for the sake of old times--good times they were, too, I’ll tell the
world--you can’t put one over, in the name of an old friend, on the
doggone Britisher.
P.S. When do we see you again here? As I’ve told you more than once,
this continent is a poorer place for your absence. If you’ve left us
for keeps it’s a great, great shame; and there’s one young man who
won’t forgive you.
When, at a decidedly late hour, or, rather, an early one, Lady Violet
returned from the festivities, she invaded Mame’s bedroom. She wanted
to see if the child had come back and that she was all right. In spite
of the excitements of the day her thoughts had been pretty constantly
with her little friend. She was a good deal concerned about Mame. And
now it was something of a relief to find her propped up in bed, simply
devouring a book with a red cover.
It was so good to see a smile on a countenance which a few hours ago
looked as if it would never smile again, that the intruder exclaimed,
“Why, why, whatever have you there?”
“Elmer’s written a book.” A glow of excitement was in Mame’s tone and
in her eyes. “It’s all about Cowbarn and the folks we used to know.”
“True to life, I hope.” Mame’s friend, gazing at her furtively, sought
to read what lay behind that rather hectic air.
“Better than life ever was or ever will be. It just gets you feeling
good. And it keeps you feeling good all the time.”
“He must be a clever man, your friend Elmer P.”
“Clever is not the name for Elmer.” Mame spoke excitedly. “A
genius--that baby! All the Cowbarn folks are in it. I’m in it. And I’ll
say he’s let me down light.”
“I hope he’s made you the heroine of the piece. Anyhow, he ought to
have. You are fit to be the heroine of the best piece ever written.”
“Say now, honey,” expostulated Mame in the way her friend had learned
to love, “that’s where you get off. Heroine-ism and that fancy jake is
no use to me. I’ll never be able to get away with it. But Elmer has let
me down light.”
“You must let me read it.”
Mame laughed. She actually laughed. “Why, you shall so. It’s the goods.
That boy has an eye to him. He can see into things. And he knows a lot
about human nature, does that boy.”
Already Lady Violet was feeling a lively sense of gratitude towards the
famous and legendary Elmer P. The poor child was transformed. Her own
people, for whose homely and abounding kindliness she had in her misery
been longing, were alive in those magic pages. Yes, they were alive and
they were dancing, Mame declared. And half America was dancing with
them.
The mirth of the simple creatures she loved so well had lifted a weight
from her heart. The relief might only be temporary, but Lady Violet
was very willing to do homage to the wizardry of Elmer P.
“There’s his letter.” Mame tossed it excitedly across the bright green
expanse of counterpane.
Lady Violet read with a smile. And then suddenly there came a
mischievous little clutch at her heart. Yes, why not? It was an idea.
The brilliantly clever woman of the world again glanced furtively at
Mame. This intoxicating moment, which was doing so much to heal the
child and to keep her sane, must, if possible, be held. But how? Like
all things in time it was fleeting, transitory. With the coming of
daylight it would surely pass. A pitiless January dawn would throw her
back upon hard and cruel reality. Yet this moment of happiness might be
extended; perhaps there was a chance of making it permanent.
She fixed her wise eyes upon those of the feverish Mame. “Yes, my dear,
we’ll go round with the big drum. We’ll corral the Press all right. If
_Prairie City_ doesn’t knock London endways it shall not be our fault.”
“You can bet your life it won’t be!”
“Well, write to-morrow and tell him so.”
“I will.”
“And tell him, my dear, in a postscript, strongly underlined, that
if he will do the one thing you ask you’ll guarantee the success of
_Prairie City_ this side the Atlantic.”
Mame was all ears. “What’s that, honey?”
“He must come over himself as soon as ever he can. We’ll promise the
very best that can be done for him in the way of a good time. After
all there is no advertisement for a book quite equal to the person who
wrote it.”
Mame gave a chuckle of pleasure. Sure, it was an idea. Why had not she
thought of it herself?
“Yes, hon, if Elmer comes that’ll fix it.”
But would he come? That stern question at once invaded Mame’s mind.
“We’ll make him,” said Lady Violet.
“He’s not easy to make do anything he don’t want to. And he’s pretty
busy these days and rather important, too.”
“We’ll get at him somehow.” Lady Violet had an arch look. “For his own
sweet sake,” she added artfully.