An hour later he was lying back in his easy-chair reading his own novel with breathless interest. He had not yet made a correction of any kind in the text. It was not until the following day that he was able to go over it all more calmly, but even then, he found that little could be done to improve it. When he had finished, he sent the proofs back and wrote a letter to Constance.
“I have read the book over,” he wrote, among other things, “and it is not so bad as I supposed. I know that it cannot be good, but I am convinced that worse novels have found their way into print, if not into notice. I take back at least one-tenth of all I said about it formerly, and I will not abuse it in the future, leaving that office to those who will doubtless command much forcible language in support of their just opinion. Am I to thank you, too? I hardly know. There are other things for which I would rather be in a position to owe you thanks. However, the die is cast, you have made a skipping-rope of the Rubicon and have whisked it under my feet without my consent. Let the poor book take its chance. Its birth was happy, may its death at least be peaceful.”
To this Constance replied three weeks later.
“I am glad to see that a disposition to repentance has set in. You are wise in not abusing my book any more. You ought to be doing penance in sackcloth and ashes before that bench in Central Park on which I sat when I told you it was good. The children would all laugh at you, and throw stones at you, and I should be delighted. I am not coming to town until it is published and is a success. Grace thinks I have gone into speculations, because I get so many letters and telegrams about it. I shall not tell you what the people who read the manuscript said about it. You can find that out for yourself.”
George awoke one morning to find himself, if not famous, at least the topic of the day in more countries than one. A week had not elapsed before the papers were full of notices of his book and speculations as to his personality. No one seemed to consider that George Winton Wood, the novelist, could be the same man as G. W. Wood, the signer of modest articles in the magazines. The first review called him an unknown person of surprising talent, the second did not hesitate to describe him as a man of genius, and the third—branded him as a plagiarist who had stolen his plot from a forgotten novel of the beginning of the century and had somehow—this was not clear in the article—made capital out of the writings of Macrobius, he was a villain, a poacher, a pickpocket novelist, a literary body-snatcher, in fact in the eyes of all but the over-lax law, little short of a thief. George knew that sort of style, and he read the abuse over again and again with unmitigated delight. He had done as much himself in the good old days when the editors would let him. He did not show this particular notice to his father, however, and only handed him those that were favourable—and they were many. Jonah Wood sat reading them all day long, over and over again.
“I am very glad, George,” he said, repeatedly. “I am very proud of you. It is splendid. But do you think all this will bring you much pecuniary remuneration?”
“Ten per cent on the advertised retail price of each copy,” was George’s answer.
He entered the railway station one day and was amazed to see the walls of the place covered with huge placards, three feet square, bearing the name of his book and his own, alternately, in huge black letters on a white ground. The young man at the bookstall was doing a thriving business. George went up to him.
“That book seems to sell,” he said quietly.
“Like hot cakes,” answered the vendor, offering him his own production. “One dollar twenty-five cents.”