And meanwhile he toiled furiously at another pot-boiler, a tale of Hessians and Tories and a red-cheeked and irresistible revolutionary heroine, to fill the insatiable maw of the readers of the “Treasure Chest.” On one occasion, when everything went wrong, Corydon took the half-dozen solid silver coffee-spoons and the heavy gold-plated berry-spoon which had constituted her outfit of wedding-presents, and sold them to a nearby jeweler for two dollars and a quarter.
But through all this bitter struggle they looked forward to a glorious ending. In April the book would be out--and then they would be free! They would go away to the country--perhaps to the little cabin of last summer! Ah, how they dreamed of that cabin, how they hungered for it! They pictured it, covered in snow, with the ice-bound brook in front of it--both the cabin and the brook asleep, and dreaming of the spring-time.
Thyrsis was dreaming of it also, with tears in his eyes and a mighty passion in his heart; for his new book was calling to him--he had to fight hard to keep it from taking possession of his thoughts and driving the pot-boilers out of the temple.
There came the joyful excitement of reading the proofs of his book; also of inspecting the cover-design, and the sample of the paper, and the “dummy”. And then--it was two weeks from now! Then it was only ten days--then only one week. And finally the raptures of the first sample copy!
It was time the publishers had begun to advertise it, and Thyrsis went to see Mr. Taylor about the matter. Mr. Taylor was vague in his replies. Then came publication-day, and still no advertisements; and Thyrsis called again, and insisted and expostulated, and learned to his consternation that they were not going to advertise it; the season was a bad one, the firm had met with unexpected expenses, and so on. When Thyrsis reminded them of their promises, and threatened and stormed, Mr. Taylor informed him quietly that there was nothing in the contract about advertising.
So Thyrsis went home, and tried to forget his rage in the work of disposing of his hundred copies. He had prepared himself for the possibility of everything else failing, but here he had a plan whereby he felt that his deliverance was assured. He had made up a list of a hundred of the best-known men of letters in the country--college presidents and professors, editors and clergymen, novelists and poets and critics; and he had done more hack-work, and earned the twenty dollars it would take to send to each of them a copy of the book, together with his manifesto, and a little type-written note. This, he felt, would make certain of the book’s being read; and once let the book be read by the real leaders of the country’s thought, and his siege would be at an end!