Mr Merchant winked at the staring, crushed youth on the sofa.
'Like'em! Of course I like 'em. What do you think I'm talking about?... Like 'em! Hmpf! Tell you what I'm going to do. A new thing in American publishing. But they're a new kind of stories. I'm going to reprint 'em, as they stand, in _Galbraith's_. What do you think o' that? A bit original, eh? I'll advertise that they've been printed before. Play it up. Tell how I found 'em. Put over my new author.' He shook his finger again at the author in question. 'Understand, I'm going to pay you just as if you'd submitted the script to me. That's how I work. Cut out all the old editorial nonsense. Red tape. If I like a thing I print it. I edit _Galbraith's_ to suit myself.
I succeed because there are a million and a half others like me. And I print the best. I'm the editor of _Galbraith's_ Oh, I keep a few desk men down there at the office. For the details. One of 'em thought he was the editor. Little short fellow. I stood him a month. Had to go to England. The day I landed I walked in on him and said, "Frank, pack up! Get out! Take a month's pay. I'm the editor."'
He snorted at the memory, and paced down the room, waving the clippings. Henry sat up, following him with anxious eyes.
When the extraordinary little man came back he said, shortly: 'All tyrants have short legs.' And walked off again.
'Who's Calverly?' he asked, the next time around.
'It's on the paper here--"Weaver and Calverly"? Father? Uncle?'
'No,' Henry managed to reply, 'it's--it's me.'
'You? Good heavens! We must stop that.' He tapped Henry's shoulder. 'Don't be a desk man! You're an artist! You don't seem to understand what we're getting at. Man, I'm going to make you! You're going to be famous in a year.'
He stopped short; took another swing around the room.
'How many of these stories are there, Calverly?'
'Fine. Short, snappy, and enough of 'em to make a very neat book. By the way, I'm starting a book department in the spring. 'What do you want for 'em?'
Henry could only look appealingly at his host.
'I'll pay liberally. I tell you frankly I mean to hold you. Make it worth your while. You're going to be my author? Henry Calverly, a Galbraith author. What do you say to a hundred apiece. That's two thousand.'
