“'What you can't see,' I says, 'is that I came here just because I was the writer of this here composition. Money I don't desire to wish for. Being a rich man and a philanthropist, I give all I make off of this book to the poor. But it ain't everybody can experience the satisfiedness of seeing a reely genooine author. So I travel around exhibiting myself for the good of the public. And as a special and extraordinary thing—a sort of guarantee to one and all that they have seen a genooine living author—I write my autograph in each and every volume of this book that I sell at the small sum of one-fifty per. Think of it! Ten thousand verses; moral, intellectooal, and witty; cloth cover, and the author's own autograph written by himself, all for one-fifty. The autograph of the famous boy author.'
“'That's a big bargain,' she says, thoughtful.
“'Jigantic,' I says
“'Genius is cert'nly a wonderful phenomenus,' she repeats again, dreamy.
“'Ain't it!' I responds, sniffing to see if it was my pants that was scorching. 'Will you have one volume?'
“She hesitated, and then she says, 'No. No, I don't dast to. Not yet. Not till I see how ma comes out. Mebby she'll purchase one before she gits through being talked to.'
“I set straight upward on my hotly warmed chair. 'Being talked to!' I says, astonished.
“'Yes,' says the sweet sample of girl. 'Your son, you know, Mister Samuel Mills; he's in the front room interviewing ma.'
“'My son!' I ejaculates weakly, the thermometer in my spinal backbone going up ten thousand degrees hotter.
“'Such an oldish son, too,' she says, sinfully joyous, 'for such a youngish father. He must have been two years old the day you were born. Genius is cert'nly a wonderful phenomenus!'