Perner's eyes, too, grew hungry at the sound of the word, but he maintained silence. A peculiar smile grew about Van Dorn's mouth.
"They won't serve two portions of pie for four of us, I suppose," he said.
There was a laugh in which all joined, and the flimsy wall of pretense was swept away.
"Let's own up, boys," said Barrifield, "it's a matter of economy just now with all of us. We'll be lunching at Del's this time next year, but for a few months we want to go a little slow. Let's have pie, though, once more, anyway."
IX
IN THE SANCTUM
Perner's days were not without compensations. There was correspondence with certain celebrities whom they had decided to engage for the coming year, and to be addressed by these as "Dear Mr. Perner," and even as "My dear Perner" more than once, was worth the foregoing of certain luxuries of a grosser nature.
Then, too, the news of the "Whole Family" had gone abroad among the bohemians of the town, and the poet and the fictionist unearthed from the dark corners of their desks—technically known as their "barrels"—the sketches, poems, and stories that had already (and more than once, perhaps, as editors came and went) gone the hopeless round from Franklin Square to Irvington-on-the-Hudson. They shook the dust from these, cleaned them carefully with an eraser, and brought them to Perner's door. They were a merry crowd, these bohemians, and most of them Perner knew. He had waited with them in editorial anterooms, had striven hip to thigh with them in the daily turmoil of Park Row, and in more convivial and prosperous moments had touched glasses and nibbled cheese with them at Lipton's or in Perry's back room. It was really rather fine, therefore, to have become all at once a potentate before whom, with due respect, they now dumped the various contents of their several "barrels."
He informed one and all graciously that contributions would be promptly passed upon, and such as were selected promptly paid for, speaking as one with ample means in reserve. He knew, of course, the venerable character of most of these offerings,—he could detect a renovated manuscript across the room in poor light,—but he also knew that some of his own most successful work had become much travel-worn. He was willing to wade through the pile of chaff in the hope of discovering a gem, and, besides, the dignity of an editorial desk with heaped-up manuscript was gratifying.