Henry Is Twenty: A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd

by Samuel Merwin

5

Mr Merchant himself opened the door to Henry. He lived in one of the earliest of the apartment buildings that later were to work a deep change in the home life of Sunbury. 'How are you, Calverly!' he said, in his offhand, superior way. Then in a lower and distinctly less superior tone, almost friendly indeed, he added, 'Got a bit of a surprise for you. Come in.'

The living-room was lighted by a single standing lamp with a red shade. Beneath it, curled up like a boy in a cretonne-covered wing chair, his shock of faded yellow hair mussed where his fingers had been, his heavy faded yellow moustache bushing out under a straight nose and pale cheeks, his old gray suit sadly wrinkled, sat a stranger reading from a handful of newspaper clippings.

Henry paused in the door. The man looked up, so quickly that Henry started, and fixed on him eyes that while they were a rather pale blue yet had an uncanny fire in them.

The man frowned as he cried, gruffly:—

'Oh, come in! Needn't be afraid of me!' And coolly read on.

Henry stepped just inside the door. Turned mutely to his host. What a queer man! Had he had it within him at the moment to resent anything, he would have stiffened. But he was crushed to begin with.

The newspaper clippings had a faintly familiar look. From across the room he thought it the type and paper of the Gleaner. His stories, doubtless. Mr Merchant was making the man read them. Well, what of it! What was the good, if they made him so cross.

'Calverly, if Mr Galbraith would stop reading for a minute—'

'I won't. Don't interrupt me!'

'—I would introduce him.'

Galbraith! The name brought colour to Henry's cheek. Not... It couldn't be!....

'But whether you care to know it or not, this is Mr Calverly, the author of——'

'So I gathered. Keep still!'

Then the extraordinary gentleman, muttering angrily, gathered up the clippings and went abruptly off down the hall, apparently to one of the bedrooms.

'That—that isn't the Mr Galbraith?' asked Henry, in voice tinged with awe.

'That's who it is. The creator of the modern magazine. We'll have to wait till he's finished now, or he'll eat us alive.'

'Henry tried to think. This sputtery little man! He was famous, and he wasn't even dignified. Henry would have expected a frock coat; or at least a manner of businesslike calm.

Mr Merchant was talking, good-humoredly. Henry heard part of it. He even answered questions now and then. But all the time he was trying—trying—to think. He thrust his hands into his pockets. One hand closed on the little box. He winced; closed his eyes; fought desperately for some sort of a mental footing.

'Calverly! What's the matter with you? You look ill. Let me get you a drink.'

And Henry heard his own voice saying weakly:—

'Oh, no, thank you. I never take anything. I just don't feel very well. It's been a—a hard day.'

'Lie down on the sofa then. Rest a little while. For I'm afraid you've got a bit of excitement coming.'

Henry did this.

Shortly the great little Mr Galbraith returned. He came straight to Henry; stood over' him; glared—angrily, Henry thought, with a fluttering of his wits—down at him.

It seemed to Henry that it would be politer to sit up. He did this, but the editor caught his shoulder and pushed him down again.

'No,' he cried, 'stay as you were. If you're tired, rest! Nothing so important—nothing! If I had learned that one small lesson twenty years ago, I'd be sole owner of my business to-day. Rest—that's the thing! And the stomach. Two-thirds of our troubles are swallowed down our throats. What do you eat?'

'I—I don't know's I——'

'For breakfast, say! What did you eat this morning for breakfast?'

'Well, I had an orange, and some oatmeal, and——'

'Wait! Stop right there! Wrong at the beginning. I don't doubt you had cream on the oatmeal?'

'Well—milk, sorta.'

'Exactly! Orange and milk! Now really—think that over—orange and milk! Isn't that asking a lot of your stomach, right at the beginning of the day?'

Mr Merchant broke in here.

'Galbraith, for heaven's sake! Don't bulldoze him.'

'But this is important. It's health! We've got to look out for that. Right from the start! Here, Calverly—how old are you?'

'I'm—well—most—twenty-one.'

'Most twenty-one! And you have to lie down before nine o'clock! Good God, boy, don't you see——'

'Oh, come, Galbraith!'

'Well, I'll put it this way:—Here's a young man that can work magic. Magic!' He waved the bundle of clippings. 'Nothing like it since Kipling and Stevenson! First thing's to take care of him, isn't it?'

Mr Merchant winked at the staring, crushed youth on the sofa.

'Then you like the stories, Galbraith?'

'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?'

'Twenty.'

'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.'

Henry would have gasped had he not felt utterly spent.

He sat motionless, hands limp on his knees, chin down.

'Not enough,' said Merchant.

Henry shifted one hand in ineffectual protest. He was frightened.

'It's pretty near enough. After all, Merchant, it's a case of a new writer. I've got to make him. It'll cost money.'

'True. But I should think——'

'Say a hundred and fifty. That's three thousand. Will you take that, Calverly?

'What for?' asked Merchant. 'What are you buying exactly?'

'Oh, serial rights. Pay a reasonable royalty on the book, of course. But I've got to publish the book, too. And I want a long-term contract. Here!' He sat down and figured with a pencil on the edge of the evening paper. 'How about this? I'm to have exclusive control of the Henry Calverly matter for five years——'

'Too long,' said Mr Merchant.

'Well—three years. I'm to see every word before he offers it elsewhere. And for what I accept I'd pay at the same rate per word as for these stories. And books at the same royalty as we agree on for this.'

'Fine for you. Guarantees your control of him. But he gets nothing. No guarantee.'

'What would be right then? I'd do the fair thing. He'll never regret tying up with me.'

'You'd better agree to pay him something—say twenty-five a week—as a minimum, to be charged against serial payments. That is, if you want to tie him up. I'm not sure I'd advise him to do even that, now.'

'I'm going to tie him up, all right. I'd go the limit. Twenty-five a week, minimum, for three years. That's agreed... How're you fixed, Calverly? Want any money now?'

Henry looked again at his cool, accomplished host. 'Yes. Better advance a little. He could use it. Couldn't you, Calverly?'

'Why—-why——'

'What do you say to five hundred. That'd clinch the bargain. Here—wait!'

He produced a pocket cheque-book and a fountain pen, and wrote out the cheque.

'Here you are, Calverly. That'd take care of you for the present. Mustn't forget to send the stub to Miss Peters to-morrow. You'd better go now. Go home. Get a good night's sleep. And watch that stomach. Cereal's good, at your age. But cut out the orange.... I'm going to bed, Merchant. Been travelling hard. Tired out myself.... Calverly, I'll send you the contract from New York.'

'First, though'—this from Mr Merchant—'I think you'd better write a letter—here, to-night—confirming the arrangement. You and I can do that. We'll let Mr Calverly go.'

Mr Galbraith didn't say good-night. Henry thought he was about to, and stood up, expectantly; but the little man suddenly dropped his eyes; looked hurriedly about; muttered—'Where'd I lay that fountain pen?'—found it; and rushed off down the hall, trailing the clippings behind him.

Out in the hall, Mr Merchant pulled the door to.

'Calverly,' he said, 'I congratulate you. And I shall congratulate Galbraith.'

Henry looked at him out of wan eyes.

Then suddenly he giggled aloud.

'I know how you feel,' said the older man kindly. 'It is pleasant to succeed.'

'I felt a little bad about—you know, what you said about making him write that letter. He might think I——'

'Don't you worry about that. I'll have the letter for you in the morning. I'm going to pin him right to it. He'll never get out of this.'

'You—you don't mean that he'd—he'd——'

'Oh, he might forget it.'

'Nor after he promised!'

'Galbraith's a genius. He gets excited. Over-cerebrates at times. Sometimes he offers young fellows more than he can deliver. Then he wakes up to it and takes a sudden trip to Europe.'

'He acts very strange,' said Henry critically. 'I wonder if all geniuses are that way.'

'They're apt to be queer. But never forget that he's a real one. No matter how mad he may seem to you, no matter how irresponsible, Galbraith is a great editor. He is wild about you. When he said he'd make you, I believe he meant it. And I believe he'll do it. You're on the high road now, Calverly. Through a lucky accident. But that's how most men hit the high road. They happen to be where it is. They stumble on it. Within a year you'll be known everywhere.... Well, good-night!'