He sat up suddenly, and threw one hand in the air.
“Think,” he cried, “of the words in black on white, with a crimson cord drawn taut across the whole ad.!”
He beamed upon me.
“The cover of the book,” he said quite calmly, “will be white,—virgin, spotless white,—with black lettering, and the cord in crimson. With each copy we will give a crimson silk cord for a book-mark. Each copy will be done up in a white box and tied with crimson cord.”
He closed his eyes and tilted his head upward.
“A thick book,” he said, “with deckel edges and pictures by Christy. No, pictures by Pyle. Deep, mysterious pictures! Shadows and gloom! And wide, wide margins. And a gloomy foreword. One-fifty per copy, at all booksellers.”
Perkins opened his eyes and set his hat straight with a quick motion of his hand. He arose and polled on his gloves.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Contracts!” he said. “Contracts for advertising! We most boom 'The Crimson Cord!' We must boom her big!”
He went out and closed the door. Presently, when I supposed him well on the way down-town, he opened the door and inserted his head.