“No, but he could have threatened to do it and Smythe would have taken it, but authors have no tact—they are all temper—they think publishers are their enemies instead of being their best friends.”
Miss Caswell enjoyed the conversation; it gave her a little rest from her very prosaic duties. She was well acquainted with the peculiarities of Mr. Potts and knew how to extend the conversation indefinitely.
“How about the critics?” she asked.
“Bah!” exclaimed Mr. Potts. “They are just as bad; each one likes a certain kind of story and he calls the rest rubbish.”
Miss Caswell, evidently, had a feeling for the critic. “It must be wearing to read so many books; no wonder they praise what they like.”
“I don’t believe they read them. They get an idea of the plot from some other paper; then they open the book, read a few pages here and there, and then write their review. Why, I know a critic who flouted a book because there were two ‘buts’ in the same sentence, but the joke was, both were used correctly. We had three Oxford professors decide the question.”
Miss Caswell dexterously gave another turn to the conversation: “You must get tired of reading so many stories, Mr. Potts, and in manuscript, too.”
“It’s a business with me; a day’s work is a day’s work. When it is over I have my home, my wife, my little boy Jimmy, and baby Dorcas. You ought to get married, Miss Caswell. It’s the only way to live.”
The young girl’s face flushed. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn. It was time to get back to business.
“I am sorry I did not see that ‘that,’ Mr. Potts.”