FOOTNOTES:

[E] This magazine, by the way, which had an humble beginning, has grown into one of the high class "populars" and has a wide circulation.

[F] Telegram sent on same day letter was received saying story was satisfactory.

[XI]

WHEN FICTION IS
STRANGER THAN TRUTH.

We are told that "fiction hath in it a higher end than fact," which we may readily believe; and we may also concede that "truth is stranger than fiction," at least in its occasional application. Nevertheless, in the course of his career as a writer Edwards has created two fictional fancies which so closely approximated truth as to make fiction stranger than truth; and, in one case, the net result of imagination was to coincide exactly with real facts of which the imagination could take no account. Perhaps each of these two instances is unique in its particular field; they are, in any event, so odd as to be worthy of note.

In the early 90's, when a great deal of Edwards' work was appearing, unsigned, in The Detroit Free Press, he wrote for that paper a brief sketch entitled, "The Fatal Hand." The sketch was substantially as follows:

"The Northern Pacific Railroad had just been built into Helena, Montana, and I happened to be in the town one evening and stepped into a gambling hall. Burton, a friend of mine, was playing poker with a miner and two professional gamblers. I stopped beside the table and watched the game.

Cards had just been drawn. Burton, as soon as he had looked at his hand, calmly shoved the cards together, laid them face-downward in front of him, removed a notebook from his pocket and scribbled something on a blank leaf. 'Read that,' said he, 'when you get back to your hotel tonight.'

The play proceeded. Presently the miner detected one of the professional gamblers in the act of cheating. Words were passed, the lie given. All the players leaped to their feet. Burton, in attempting to keep the miner from shooting, received the gambler's bullet and fell dead upon the scattered cards.

An hour later, when I reached my hotel, I thought of the note Burton had handed me. It read: 'I have drawn two red sevens. I now hold jacks full on red sevens. It is a fatal hand and I shall never leave this table alive. I have $6,000 in the First National Bank at Bismarck. Notify my mother, Mrs. Ezra J. Burton, Louisville, Kentucky.'"

This small product of the Fiction Factory was pure fiction from beginning to end. In the original it had the tang of point and counterpoint which caused it to be seized upon by other papers and widely copied. This gave extensive publicity to the "fatal hand"—the three jacks and two red sevens contrived by Edwards out of a small knowledge of poker and the cabala of cards.

Yet, what was the result?

A month later the Chicago papers published an account of a police raid on a gambling room. As the officers rushed into the place a man at one of the tables fell forward and breathed his last. "Heart disease," was the verdict. But note: A police officer looked at the cards the dead man had held and found them to be three jacks and two red sevens.

A week later The New York Recorder gave space to a news story in which a man was slain at a gaming table in Texas. When the smoke of the shooting had blown away some one made the discovery that he had held the fatal hand.

From that time on for several months the fatal hand left a trail of superstition and gore all over the West. How many murders and hopeless attacks of heart failure it was responsible for Edwards had no means of knowing, but he could scarcely pick up a paper without finding an account of some of the ravages caused by his "jacks full on red sevens."

Query: Were the reporters of the country romancing? If not, will some psychologist kindly rise and explain how a bit of fiction could be responsible for so much real tragedy?

In this instance, fancy established a precedent for fact; in the case that follows, the frankly fictitious paralleled the unknown truth in terms so exact that the story was recognized and appropriated by the son of the story's hero.

While Edwards was in Arizona he was continually on the alert for story material. The sun, sand and solitude of the country "God forgot" produce types to be found nowhere else. He ran out many a trail that led from adobe-walled towns into waterless deserts and bleak, cacti-covered hills to end finally at some mine or cattle camp. It was on one of these excursions that he was told how a company of men had built a dam at a place called Walnut Grove. This dam backed up the waters of a river and formed a huge lake. Mining for gold by the hydraulic method was carried on profitably in the river below the dam. One night the dam "went out" and a number of laborers were drowned.

With this as the germ of the plot Edwards worked out a story. He called it "A Study in Red," and it purported to show how a lazy Maricopa Indian, loping along on his pony in the gulch below Walnut Grove, gave up his mount to a white girl, daughter of the superintendent of the mining company, and while she raced on to safety he remained to die in the flood from the broken dam.

The story was published in Munsey's Magazine. Six years later the author received a letter from the Maricopa Indian Reservation, sent to New York in care of the F. A. Munsey Company. The letter was from a young Maricopa.

"I have often read the account of my father's bravery, and how he saved the life of the beautiful white girl when the Walnut Grove dam gave way. I have kept the magazine, and whenever I feel blue, or life does not go to please me, I get the story and read it and take heart to make the best of my lot and try to pattern after my father.

I have long wanted to write you, and now I have done so. I am back from the Indian School at Carlisle, on a visit to my people, and am impelled to send you this letter of appreciation and thanks for the story about my father."

Now, pray, what is one to think of this? The letter bears all the earmarks of a bona fide performance and was written and mailed on the Reservation. Edwards' fiction, it seems, had become sober fact for this young Maricopa Indian. Or did his father really die by giving up his pony to the "beautiful young white girl?" And was Edwards' prescience doing subliminal stunts when he wrote the story?

John Peter, should this ever meet your eyes will you please communicate further with the author of "A Study in Red?" It has been some years now since a letter, sent to you at the Reservation, failed of a reply. And the letter has not been returned.

[XII]

FORTUNE BEGINS
TO SMILE

Edwards' literary fortunes all but reached financial zero in 1897; with 1898 they began to mount, although the tendency upward was not very pronounced until the month of April. During the first quarter of the year he wrote and sold one Stella Edwards serial entitled "Lovers En Masque." His poor health continued, and he was able to work only a few hours each day, but the fact that he could drive himself to the typewriter and lash his wits into evolving acceptable work gave him encouragement to keep at it. Early in April, with part of the proceeds from the serial story for expenses, he made a trip to New York.

"Prospecting trips" is the name Edwards gives to his frequent journeys to the publishing center of the country. He prospected for orders, prospected for better prices, prospected for new markets. No fiction factory can be run successfully on a haphazard system for disposing of its product. There must be some market in prospect, and on the wheel of this demand the output must be shaped as the potter shapes his clay.

Edwards made it a rule to meet his publishers once a year, secure their personal views as he could not secure them through correspondence, and keep himself prominently before them. In this way he secured commissions which, undoubtedly, would otherwise have been placed elsewhere. With each succeeding journey Edwards has made to New York, his prospecting trips have profited him more and more. This is as it should be. There is no "marking time" for a writer in the fierce competition for editorial favor; for one merely to "hold his own" is equivalent to losing ground. The writer must grow in his work. When he ceases to do that he will find himself slipping steadily backward toward oblivion.

Edwards found that in reaching New York in early April 1898, he had arrived at the psychological moment. Harte & Perkins, already described as keeping tense fingers on the pulse of their reading public, had discovered a feverish quickening of interest for which the Klondike gold rush was responsible. The prognosis was good for a new five-cent library; so the "Golden Star Library" was given to the presses. Edwards, because he was on the spot and urging his claims for recognition, was chosen to furnish the copy. During the year he wrote sixteen of these stories.

For half of April and all of May and June, Edwards and his wife were at their old boarding place in Forty-fourth street. During this time, along with the writing of the Golden Star stories, a juvenile serial and a Stella Edwards serial were prepared. The title of the Stella Edwards rhapsody was "A Blighted Heart."

On July 2, owing to the excessive heat in the city and a belief on Edwards' part that the country would benefit him, the Fiction Factory was temporarily removed to the Catskill Mountains. Comfortable quarters were secured in a hotel near Cairo, and the work of producing copy went faithfully on. Edwards' health improved somewhat, although he was still unable to keep at his machine for a union day of eight hours.

Under date of Aug. 1, Harte & Perkins wrote Edwards that on account of the poor success of the Golden Star Library they would have to stop its weekly publication and issue it as a monthly. Mr. Perkins write:

"I do not think that the quality of the manuscript is so much at fault as the character of the library itself, though it is very difficult always to know just what the boys want."

Edwards was depending upon this library to support himself and wife, and the weekly check was a sine qua non. Summer-resorting is expensive, and he had not yet had his fill of the historic old Catskills. He wrote the firm and requested them to send on a check for "A Blighted Heart." The blight did not confine itself to the story but was visited upon Edwards' hopes, as well. Harte & Perkins did not respond favorably. The serial was not to begin in "The Weekly Guest" until the latter part of September, and upon beginning publication was to be paid for in weekly installments of $25. Wrote Mr. Perkins:

"This is a season when, with depressed business and the many accounts we have to look after, it is difficult for us to make advanced payments on manuscripts. You may rest assured that, if conditions were otherwise, I should have been glad to meet your wishes."

This meant an immediate farewell to the stamping grounds of good old Rip Van Winkle. Forthwith the Edwards struck their tent and boarded a night boat at Catskill Landing for down river. In their stateroom that night, with a fountain pen and using the wash-stand for a table, Edwards completed No. 16 of the ill-fated Golden Star Library. He had begun this manuscript before the notification to stop work on the series had reached him. In such cases, Harte & Perkins never refused to accept the complete story.

December found Edwards again settled on the North Side, in Chicago. He had consulted a physician regarding his health, and after a thorough examination had been told that it would require at least a year, and perhaps a year and a half, to cure him. The physician was a young man of splendid ability, and as he had just "put out his shingle" and patients were slow in rallying "round the standard," he threw himself heart and soul into the task of making a whole man out of Edwards. The writer helped by leasing a flat within half a block of his medical adviser and faced the twelve or eighteen months to come with more or less equanimity.

Edwards, of course, could not recline at his ease while the work of rehabilitation was going forward. The family must be supported and the doctor paid. Forty dollars a month from the Golden Star Library would not do this. It was necessary to run up the returns somehow and another Stella Edwards story was undertaken. The title of this story was "Won by Love," and Harte & Perkins acknowledged receipt of the first two installments on Dec. 6. Inasmuch as "Won by Love" came very near being the death of its author, it may be interesting to consider the story a little further. The letter of the 6th ran:

"We have received the first two installments of 'Won by Love' and like them very much indeed, but before giving you a definite answer we would like to have four more instalments on approval, making six in all. Kindly send these at your earliest convenience and oblige."

The four installments were sent and nothing more was heard from them until a telegram, dated Jan. 19, 1899, was received:

"Please send more of 'Won by Love' as soon as possible. Must have it Monday."

Owing to the fact that the writer of the old Five-Cent Library, for which Edwards had furnished copy some years before, had been taken seriously ill, this work had been turned over to Edwards on Dec. 27, 1898.

At this time Edwards was confined to his bed, and there he worked, his typewriter in front of him on an improvised table. He had just finished several hours' work on a library story when the telegram regarding "Won by Love" was received. This was Saturday. Edwards wired at once that he would send two more installments on the following Monday. These 12,000 words went forward according to schedule, and on the night they were sent the doctor called and found his patient in a state of collapse. Cause, too much "Won by Love." The young physician took it more to heart than Edwards did.

"I'm afraid," said he gloomily, "that you have ended your writing for all time."

"You're wrong, doctor," declared Edwards; "I'm not going to be removed until I've done something better than pot-boilers."

"I want to call a specialist into consultation," was the reply.

The specialist was called and Edwards was stripped and his body marked off into sections—mapped out with one medical eye on the "undiscovered country" and the other on this lowly but altogether lovely "vale of tears." When the examination was finished, the preponderance of testimony was all in favor of the Promised Land.

"I should say, Mr. Edwards," said the specialist, in a tone professionally sympathetic, "that you have one chance in three to get well. Your other chance is for possibly seven or eight years of life. The third chance allows you barely time to settle your affairs."

Settle his affairs! What affairs had Edwards to settle? There was the next library to be written and "Won by Love" to finish, but these would have netted Mrs. Edwards no more than $340. And the smallest chance would not suffer Edwards to leave his wife even this pittance. Since his disastrous Arizona experience Edwards had not been able to save any money. He was only just beginning to look ahead to a little garnering when the doctors pronounced their verdict. He had not a dollar of property, real or personal, if his library was not taken into account, and not a cent of life insurance. After turning this deplorable situation over in his mind, he decided that it was impossible for him to die.

"I'm going to take the first chance," said he, "and make the most of it."

He did. The young physician gave up more of his time and worked like a galley slave to see his patient through. Now, thirteen years after the specialist spoke the last word, Edwards is in robust health—the monument of his own determination and the young doctor's skill. Nothing succeeds—sometimes—like the logic of nil desperandum.

To regain a foothold with his publishers, following the disastrous year of 1897, had cost Edwards so much persistent work that he would not cancel a single order. He hired a stenographer and for two weeks dictated his stories, then again resumed the writing of them himself, in bed and with the use of the improvised table. Success awaited all his fiction, even when turned out in such adverse circumstances. This, perhaps, was the best tonic he could have. He improved slowly but surely and was able, in addition to his regular work, to write a hundred-thousand word novel embracing his Arizona experiences. This novel he called "He Was a Stranger."

The title was awkward, but it had been clipped from the quotation, "he was a stranger, and they took him in." The story was submitted to Harte & Perkins, but they were not in the mood for taking in strangers of that sort. But the year following the novel secured the friendly consideration of Mr. Matthew White, Jr., and introduced Edwards into the Munsey publications.

Another novel, "The Man from Dakota," was returned by Harte & Perkins after they had had it on hand for a year. It was declined in the face of a favorable report by one of their readers because, "We have so many books on hand that must be brought out during the next year that we cannot consider this story."

The year 1899 closed with Fortune's smile brightening delightfully for Edwards, and the new century beckoning him pleasantly onward with the hope of better things to come. The returns for the two years, standing to the credit of The Fiction Factory, are summarized thus:

1898:
"Lovers En Masque,"$ 300.
"Golden Star Library," 16 at $40 each,640.
Boys Serial,100.
"A Blighted Heart,"300.
————
Total$1340.

1899:
"Won by Love,"$ 300.
3 "Golden Stars" at $40 each,120.
35 Five-Cent Libraries at $40 each,1400.
————
Total$1820.

Edwards lives in the outskirts of a small town, on a road much travelled by farmers. Two honest tillers of the soil were passing his home, one day, and one of them was heard to remark to the other: "A man by the name of Edwards lives there, Jake. He's one of those fictitious writers."

Edwards has few friends whom he prizes more highly than he does Col. W. F. Cody, "Buffalo Bill," and Major Gordon W. Lillie, "Pawnee Bill." While the Wild West and Far East Show, of which Cody and Lillie are the proprietors was making its farewell tour with the Last of the Scouts, Major Lillie had this to tell about Colonel Cody:

"You'd be surprised at the number of people who try to beat their way into the show by stringing the Colonel. The favorite way is by claiming acquaintance with him. A stranger will approach Buffalo Bill with a bland smile and an outstretched hand. 'Hello, Colonel!' he'll say, 'guess who I am! I'll bet you can't guess who I am!' Cody will give it up. 'Why,' bubbles the stranger, 'don't you remember when you were in Ogden, Utah, in nineteen-two? Remember the crowd at the depot to see you get off the train? Why, I was the man in the white hat!'"

"Just this afternoon," laughed the Major, "Cody came up to where I was standing. He was wiping the sweat from his forehead and his face was red and full of disgust. 'What's the matter?' I inquired. 'Oh,' he answered, 'another one of those d— guessing contests! Why in blazes can't people think up something new?'"

[XIII.]

OUR FRIEND,
THE T. W.

In some localities of this progressive country the pen may still be mightier than the sword; but if, afar from railroad and telegraph, holed away in barbaric seclusion, there really exists a community that writes with a quill and uses elderberry ink and a sandbox, it is safe to say that this community has never been heard of—and the cause is not far to seek. Just possibly, however, it is from such a backwoods township that the busy editor receives those rare manuscripts whose chirography covers both sides of the sheet. In this case the pen is really mightier than the sword as an instrument for cutting the ground out from under the feet of aspiring genius. Just possibly, too, it was from such a place that a typewritten letter was returned to the sender with the indignant scrawl: "You needn't bother to print my letters—I can read writin'."

Nowadays penwork is confined largely to signing letters and other documents and indorsing checks; to use it for anything else should be named a misdemeanor in the statutes with a sliding scale of punishments to fit the gravity of the offense.

It is not to be inferred, of course, that a man will dictate his love letters to a stenographer. Here, indeed, "two's company and three's a crowd." Every man should master the T. W., and when he confides his tender sentiments to paper for the eyes of the One Girl, his own fingers should manipulate the keys and the T. W., should be equipped with a tri-chrome ribbon—red and black record and purple copying. Black will answer for the more subdued expressions, red should be switched on for the warmer terms of endearment, and purple should be used for whatever might be construed as evidence in a court of law. Even billets-doux have been known to develop a commercial value.

When a serviceable typewriter may be bought for $25 what excuse has anyone for side-stepping the inventive ingenuity of the day which makes for clearness and speed? How much does Progress owe the typewriter? Who can measure the debt? How much does civilization owe the telephone, the night-letter, the fast mail and two-cent postage? Even more than to these does Progress owe to that mechanism of springs, keys and type-bars which makes plain and rapid the written thought.

In the Edwards Fiction Factory the T. W., comprises the entire "plant." The "hands" employed for the skilled labor are his own, and fairly proficient. His own, too, is the administrative ability, modest enough in all truth yet able to guide the Factory's destiny with a fair meed of success.

Since the T. W., is so important, Edwards believes in always keeping abreast of improvements. The best is none too good. A typed script, no less than a stereotyped idea, is damned by mediocrity. If a typewriter appears this year which is a distinct advance over last year's machine, Edwards has it. Keeping up-to-date is usually a little expensive, but it pays.

In the early days of his writing Edwards used the old Caligraph. It was a small machine and confined itself to capital letters. Whenever he wished to indicate the proper place for a capital he did it thus: HIS NAME WAS CAESAR, AND HE LIVED IN ROME. If he lost a letter—and letters in those days were not easily replaced—he allowed the unknown quantity "X" to piece out: HIX NAME WAX CAEXAR—. In due time he came to realize the importance of neatness and traded his first Caligraph for a later model equipped with letters from both "cases." During twenty-two years he has purchased at least twenty-five typewriters, each the last word in typewriter construction at the time it was bought. At present he has two machines, one a "shift-key" and the other with every letter and character separately represented on the key-board.

There are many makes of typewriters, and operators are of many minds regarding the "best" makes. Edwards has favored the full key-board as being less of a drain upon the attention than the "shift-key" machine. For the writer who composes upon his machine the operating must become a habit, otherwise an elusive idea may take wings for good while the one who evolved it is searching out the letters necessary to nail it hard and fast to the white sheet. Edwards has recently discovered that he can change from his full key-board to a shift-key and back again without materially interrupting his flow of ideas.

The characters of the key-board used for ordinary business purposes and those in demand by the writer are somewhat different. Not always, on the key-board designed for commercial use, will the exclamation point be found. This, if wanted, must be built up out of a period and a half-ditto mark,—"." plus "'" equals "!" Such makeshifts should be tabooed by the careful writer. Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well, and once. Three motions, two at the key-board and one at the back-spacer, are two too many. By all means have the real thing in exclamation points—!

Another makeshift with which Edwards has little patience is the custom of using ditto marks for quotation marks, and semi-dittos for semi-quotes. These, and other characters, may be added to most machines by eliminating the fractions, the oblique mark or the per cent. sign.

It seems poor policy, also, to use a hyphen, or two hyphens, to indicate a dash. Why not have the underscore raised to the position of a hyphen and so have a dash that is a dash?

The asterisk, "*," is a character valuable for indicating footnotes, and the caret is often useful in making typewritten interlineations. All these characters Edwards has on his full key-board machine. On the shift-key machine he must still struggle with the built-up exclamation point, the ditto quotes and the hyphen dash. No wonder he prefers a Smith Premier!

Even the best and most up-to-date typewriter cannot answer all the demands made upon it by writers, however. Some day the growing army of authors will receive due attention in this matter, and the manuscript submitted to editors will compare favorably with the printed story.

In "Habits that Help," a very instructive article by Walter D. Scott, professor of psychology at Northwestern University, published in Everybody's Magazine for September, 1911, appears this paragraph:

"Some time ago I could pick out the letters on a typewriter at a rate of about one per second. Writing is now becoming reduced to a habit, and I can write perhaps three letters a second. When the act has been reduced to the pure habit form, I shall be writing at the rate of not less than five letters per second."

The "pure habit form" is one for those who compose on the typewriter to acquire. It not only means ease of composition, but speed in the performance and perfect legibility.

Until a few years ago, Edwards always carried his typewriter with him on his travels. The machine was large and heavy and had to be handled with care, so its transportation was no easy matter. In course of time, and pending the invention of a practical typewriter to fit the pocket, he became content to leave his machine at home and rent one wherever he happened to be.

During one of his eastern "prospecting" trips, Edwards and his wife left New York for a few summer weeks in the Berkshire Hills. The T. W., remained temporarily in the city to be overhauled and forwarded. For a fortnight Edwards slaved with a pen, writing four manuscripts of 25,000 words each. He appreciated then, as he had never done before, the value of the typewriter in his work. Late in the first week he began writing and telegraphing for his machine to be sent on.

About the hotel it was known that Edwards expected a typewriter by every stage from Great Barrington. He had fretted about the non-arrival of the typewriter, and in some manner had let fall the information that his typewriter weighed sixty pounds. Speculation was rife as to whether the T. W., had blue eyes or gray, and as to what manner of dwarf or living skeleton could fulfill the requirements at sixty pounds. When the machine finally arrived and the square packing case was unloaded, a host of curious ladies received the surprise of their lives.

"Typewriter," commonly used as a generic name for the machine that prints, as well as for the person who operates it, should have its double meaning curtailed. The young lady of pleasing face and amiable deportment, whose deft fingers hover over the keys of a senseless machine, is entitled to something more appropriate in the way of a professional title.

Let it be "typist," after the English fashion; and instead of saying "the typist typewrote the letter," why not say she "typed" it?

An editor once returned a manuscript with a note like this:

Dear Sir:—Put it into narrative form.
Yours truly, "The Editor."

I did so. A week later came this:

"Dear Sir:—A little mystery would help. We like your style very much. Yours truly, "The Editor."

I put in the mystery. A week later,—

"Dear Sir:—You send us good verse. Why not turn the marked paragraphs into verse, with strong influence on story? Well written. "Yours truly, etc."

It was a good idea. The verse was acceptable. It was so acceptable that the editor sent back the story and a check for $5 in payment for the verse—which was all he kept!

Dear Sir:—Put it into narrative form.
Yours truly, "The Editor."

"Dear Sir:—A little mystery would help. We like your style very much. Yours truly, "The Editor."

"Dear Sir:—You send us good verse. Why not turn the marked paragraphs into verse, with strong influence on story? Well written. "Yours truly, etc."

[XIV]

FRESH FIELDS
AND PASTURES NEW

So far in his writing career Harte & Perkins had been the heaviest purchasers of Edwards' fiction. They had given him about all he could do of a certain class of work, and he had not tried to find other markets for the Factory's product. Pinning his hopes to one firm, even though it was the best firm in the business, was unsatisfactory in many respects. For various reasons, any one of which is good and sufficient, a writer should have more than one "string to his bow." Harte & Perkins, jealously watching the tastes of their reading public, were compelled to make many and sudden changes in the material they put out. This directly affected the writers of the material, and Edwards was often left with no prospects at all, and perhaps at just the time when he flattered himself that his prospects were brightest.

In preceding chapters mention has been made of two serial stories in which Edwards had vainly endeavored to interest Harte & Perkins. One of these was "The Man from Dakota," and the other, "He Was A Stranger." These, and another entitled "A Tale of Two Towns," written late in 1900, were ultimately to open new markets.

In a diary for the year 1900, Edwards has this under date of Tuesday, Jan. 2:

"Mr. Paisley called to see me this morning on a business matter. It appears that the proprietor of The Western World had ordered a serial from Opie Read and was not satisfied with it.[G] As The Western World goes to press in a few days they must have another story at once. Later in the day I talked with Mr. Underwood the (as I suppose) proprietor, and he asked me to get 'The Man from Dakota' from Mr. Kerr, of The Chicago Ledger. I did so and took the manuscript over to Mr. Paisley. If it is acceptable they are to pay me $200 for it."

Mr. Paisley was a gentleman with whom Mrs. Edwards had become acquainted while attending Frank Holme's School for Illustration, in Chicago. He was a man of much ability.

Under Thursday, Jan. 4, the diary has a memorandum to this effect:

"Mr. Paisley came out to see me at noon. They like 'The Man from Dakota' and will pay me $200 for it, divided into three payments of $50, $50 and $100."

So, finally, "The Man from Dakota" got into print. While it was still appearing in The Western World; Mr. Underwood conceived the idea of booming the circulation of his paper by publishing a mystery story—one of those stories in which the mystery is not revealed until the last chapter, and for the solution of which prizes are offered. He asked Edwards if he would write such a story. Why should Edwards write one when he already had on hand the mystery story unsuccessfully entered in the old Chicago Daily News contest? He offered this to Mr. Underwood. He read it and liked it. Mr. Paisley read it and liked it. What was the very lowest figure Edwards would take for it?

Mr. Underwood, in getting around to this point, told how he had sent for Stanley Waterloo and asked him to write the mystery story. "What will you pay?" inquired Mr. Waterloo. "I'll give you $100," said Mr. Underwood. Whereupon Mr. Waterloo arose in awful majesty and strode from the office. He did not even linger to say good-by.

"Now," said Mr. Underwood to Edwards, with a genial smile, "don't you do that if I offer you seventy-five dollars for 'What Happened to the Colonel.'"

"Cash?" asked Edwards.

"On the nail."

"Give me the money," said Edwards; "I need it."

Now that the diary has been quoted with a reference to Opie Read, perhaps another reference to the same genial and talented gentleman may be pardoned:

Jan. 19, 1900.—"Opie Read made his 'first appearance in vaudeville' this week, and Gertie (Mrs. Edwards) and I went to the Chicago Opera House this afternoon to hear him. He was very good, but I would rather read one of his stories than hear him tell it."

Later in the year Edwards "broke into" the papers served by the McClure Syndicate with "A Tale of Two Towns." After using this serial in metropolitan papers, the McClure people sold it to The Kellogg Newspaper Union to be used in the "patents" sent out to country newspapers. The story was later brought out in cloth by the G. W. Dillingham Co., New York.

The third novel, "He Was A Stranger," had already been refused by Harte & Perkins. Late in May, 1900, Edwards again went "prospecting" to New York. Feeling positive that Harte & Perkins had missed some of the good points in the story, he carried the manuscript with him and once more submitted it. Again it was refused, but Mr. Hall, editor of the "Guest," informed Edwards that he had an excellent story but that it was impossible for Harte & Perkins to consider its purchase. Edwards asked if he knew of a possible market. "Mr. Munsey," was the reply, "is looking for stories for The Argosy, and I'd suggest that you take the story over there and show it to Mr. White, The Argosy's editor." Edwards tucked the novel under his arm and strolled up Fifth Avenue to the offices of the Frank A. Munsey Company. There, and for the first time, he met Mr. Matthew White, Jr.

The impression of power, tremendous ability and a big, two-handed grasp of Argosy affairs which the editor made upon Edwards, at this time, has deepened with the passing years. An author, as well as a keen dramatic critic, Mr. White brings to bear on his editorial duties an intuition that closely approximates genius. He has proved his remarkable fitness for the post he occupies by making The Argosy, since Mr. Munsey "divested it of its knickerbockers," the most widely read of all the purely fiction magazines. And withal he is one of the most pleasant editors whom a writer will ever have the good fortune to meet.

Mr. White was glad to consider "He Was A Stranger." He thumbed over the pages, noted the length, and asked what price Edwards would put upon the manuscript in case it was acceptable. Edwards named $500, and told of "The Brave and Fair" which Harte & Perkins, a few years before, had bought at that figure. Mr. White replied that The Argosy, as yet, was unable to pay such prices, but that he would read the story and, if he liked it, make an offer. A few days later he offered $250 for serial rights. Edwards took into consideration the fact that the story would establish him in the columns of a growing magazine and, with an eye to the future, accepted the offer. He has never had occasion to regret his decision.

From the beginning of the year Edwards had been doing a large amount of five-cent library work for Harte & Perkins. A new weekly had been started, the writer who furnished the copy failed to get his manuscript in on time, and Edwards was given a story to finish and, a few days afterward, the entire series to take care of.

At the time he sold the serial to Mr. White, he was supplying weekly copy for two libraries—the old Five-Cent Library and the new weekly, which shall here be referred to as the Circus Series.

On the proceeds from the sale of "He Was A Stranger" Edwards and his wife had a little outing at Atlantic City. They returned to New York for a few days, and then went on to Boston. Here, comfortably quartered in a hotel, Edwards devoted his mornings to work and his afternoons to seeing the "sights" with Mrs. Edwards. They haunted Old Cambridge, they made pilgrimages to Salem, to Plymouth and to other places, and they enjoyed themselves as they had never done before on an eastern trip. Later they finished out the summer near Monterey, in the Berkshire Hills.

During all these travels the Fiction Factory was regularly grinding out its grist of copy—so many pages a day, so many stories a week. Two libraries, together with a sketch each month for a trade paper published by Harte & Perkins, kept Edwards too busy to prepare any manuscripts for The Argosy. Much of his work, while in the Berkshires, was done in longhand. On this point Mr. Perkins wrote, July 25:

"I should think you would miss your typewriter. I fear that I shall miss it, too, when I read your manuscript, although I find your writing easier to read than that of any of our other writers."

In August the Edwards went West, visited for a time in Michigan and then in Wisconsin, finally returned to the former state and, in the little country town where Edwards was born, bought an old place and settled down.

As with the Golden Star Library, misfortune finally overtook the Circus Series. A telegram was received telling Edwards to hold No. 47 of the Circus Series pending instructions by letter. The letter instructed him to close up finally the adventures of the hero and his friends and bring their various activities to an appropriate end. The series was continued, for a while longer, with a brand-new hero in each story; but Edwards was requested to write but three of the stories in the new form.

The year, which opened auspiciously and proved a banner year financially, closed with a discontinuance of all orders from Harte & Perkins. Re-prints were being used in the old Five-Cent Library—stories that had been issued years before and could now be republished for another generation of boy readers. Under date of Dec. 1, 1911, Mr. Perkins wrote:

"I know of nothing, just at present, which you can do for us, but should anything develop I shall be very glad to inform you."

This left Edwards with a sketch a month for the trade paper, for which he was paid $10 each. That "misfortunes never come singly" is an old saying, and one which Edwards has found particularly true in the writing profession. A letter of Dec. 27, informed him:

"We have decided to dispense with the sketches in our trade paper for the present, at least; therefore the February sketch we have in hand will be the last we will want unless we give you further notice."

In a good many cases the tendency of a writer, when fate deals hardly with him in the matter of a demand for his work, is to take his rebuffs too seriously. Often he will lock up his Factory, leaving a placard on the door: "Closed. Proprietor gone to Halifax. Nothing in the fiction game anyhow."

Edwards used to feel in this way. As he grew older he learned to take his disappointments with more or less equanimity, and to keep the Factory running. He thought, now, of Mr. White and The Argosy. Here was a good time to prepare an Argosy serial. He wrote it, sent it, and on Feb. 15, 1901, received this terse letter:

"My dear Mr. Edwards:

We can use your story, 'The Tangle in Butte,' in The Argosy at $200. Very truly yours,

Matthew White, Jr."

This was less than the price paid for "He Was A Stranger," but the story ran only 60,000 words, while the other serial had gone to 100,000. The acceptance went to Mr. White by return mail.

On the day following there came a letter from Harte & Perkins ordering work in the old Five-Cent Library—work that would keep Edwards busy for the rest of the year. Ten of the old stories which Edwards had written were to be revised and lengthened by 10,000 words. For this work he was to be paid $30 for each story. When the ten numbers had been revised and lengthened, he was to go on with the stories, writing a new one each week. Fifty dollars apiece was to be paid for the new stories.

There was an order, too, for more sketches for the trade paper, to be done in another vein.

On Aug. 5 the length of the Five-Cent Library stories was cut from 30,000 words to 20,000, and the remuneration was cut from $50 to $40. Another juvenile paper was started and Edwards was asked to submit serials for it. In fact, 1901 might be called a "boom" year for the Fiction Factory, although the returns, while satisfactory, were not of the "boom" variety.

Perhaps the reader may remember the serial, "A Vassar Girl," referred to in a previous chapter as having been submitted to Harte & Perkins and rejected. Edwards had faith in this story and offered it to Mr. White. Mr. White's judgment, however, tallied with that of Harte & Perkins. Under date of June 13 Mr. White wrote:

"I am sorry that 'A Vassar Girl' has not borne out the promise of the opening chapters. The interest in it is not sufficiently sustained for serial use. The story might be divided into several incidents, which do not grow inevitably the one out of the other. For this reason it has, as a whole, proved disappointing and I am returning the manuscript by express. We should be glad, however, to have you continue to submit work to us."

With faith undiminished, Edwards forwarded the story to McClure's Newspaper Syndicate. It was returned without an explanation of any kind. Again he prevailed upon Harte & Perkins to consider it. It came back from them on Sept. 13, with this message:

"I am sorry to say that we do not feel inclined to revise our judgement with reference to your manuscript story, 'A Vassar Girl.' I am inclined to think from looking over the review of the story that it would be well for you to sell it just as it is, and we hope you will be able to find a market for it somewhere. It would not pay us to publish."

Edwards knew that the story, wrought out of his Arizona experiences, was true in local color and good of its kind, and he failed to understand why it was not appreciated. Then, on Sep. 14, came this from the S. S. McClure Company:

"During July we had under consideration a story of yours entitled, 'A Vassar Girl.' On July 31 we wrote you from the Syndicate, informing you that we hoped to be able to use the story as a serial in the very near future. The serial was taken back for consideration in the book department by one of the readers who wished again to examine it, and from there it was erroneously returned to you. Now if you have not disposed of the serial rights of 'A Vassar Girl' we should like you again to forward the story to us, and we will submit it to some of our papers as we had always intended to do. We will then give you a prompt decision."

The story was purchased, and Edwards' faith in it was confirmed.

It was during this year of 1901 that Edwards had a fleeting glimpse of fortune as a playwright. His story, "The Tangle in Butte," had been read by an actor, a leading man in a Kansas City stock company, who wanted dramatic rights so that he might have a play taken from it and written around him. Edwards proposed to write the play himself. He did so, and was promptly offered $5,000 for the play, payable in installments after production. Following a good deal of correspondence it was decided to put on the piece for a week's try-out in Kansas City. Edwards waived his right to royalties for the week, models of the scenery were made, rehearsals began—and then the actor was suddenly stricken with a serious illness and the deal was off. When he had recovered sufficiently to travel he went East, taking the play with him. For several months he tried to interest various managers in it, but without effect.

The year 1901 closed for Edwards with the sketches for the trade paper no longer in demand; but, otherwise, he faced a steadily brightening prospect for the Fiction Factory.

1900:
Circus Series, 28 @ $40 each$1120.00
Circus Series, Completing unfinished story20.00
Five-Cent Library, 23 @ $40 each920.00
Trade Paper Sketches, 10 @ $10 each100.00
"He Was A Stranger,"250.00
"The Man From Dakota,"200.00
"What Happened to the Colonel,"75.00
————
Total$2685.00
1901:
Five-Cent Library, 10 rewritten @ $30 each$ 300.00
Five-Cent Library, 8 @ $50 each400.00
Five-Cent Library, 16 @ $40 each640.00
Four Boys' Serials @ $100 each400.00
"The Tangle in Butte,"200.00
"Tale of Two Towns,"150.00
"A Vassar Girl,"100.00
Trade Paper Sketches, 9 @ $10 each90.00
————
Total$2685.00

Very Often.

Poeta nascitur; non fit. This has been somewhat freely translated by one who should know, as "The poet is born; not paid."