Well, After All--

by Frank Frankfort Moore

“Manchester should be ruined in order that Mr.—Mr.—was his name—Paddleford?—yes, that Mr. Faddleford might float a company,” said Agnes.

“Not merely Manchester, but all the cotton-growing states of America would be brought to the verge of ruin,” said he. “The growth of that weed upon the sides of the valley I speak of far exceeds the growth of all the cotton in the world. We travelled for four months through that valley without once losing sight of that weed. Things are done on a large scale in Central Africa. The ground rents there are somewhat less than they are in Middlesex. Can you fancy a valley running from John o'Groat's to Land's End with its sides covered thickly with one weed—say with thistles only?”

“And you can tell the world of that valley—of that plant for which the world has been waiting for thousands of years, and yet there is still a doubt in your mind as to whether you should spend an hour talking about it or not!” cried Clare. “Look here, Mr. Westwood; you send a telegram to the President of the Geographical Society appointing a day to reveal to him and his friends—to all the world—the world that has been waiting for certainly six thousand years—some people say six million—for the discovery of that plant—telegraph that, or I shall do it; and when you are at the bureau of telegraphs, just send another message to the publisher who hunted for you, telling him that you accept his offer of twenty-five thousand pounds. He confided in me aboard the steamer with tears in his eyes, that this was the exact sum that he had offered to you for the making of two thick volumes on your adventures, to be ready in four months from to-day.”

“Heavens above! this is carrying things with a high hand!” cried Claude. “Perhaps you would not think it too much trouble to suggest a title for the book—that, I understand, is always a difficult business.”

“Ah, the representative of Messrs. Shekels & Shackles, the publishers, confided to me his designs in regard to that point also,” said Clare triumphantly. “The poor man had passed days and nights in the Mediterranean thinking over the best title for your book; but only when he got through the Red Sea did the inspiration come to him. I agreed with him that it would be too bad if all his trouble were to no purpose. I agree with him still.”

“He went a long way—so did you,” said Claude. “And the title—are you at liberty to divulge it to the author of the book yet unborn?”

“The name of the book is to be 'Homeless in Hades,'” laughed Clare. “So much the agent confided in me. He thought that by that title the readers would be prepared for the worst you had to tell them.”

“And so they would. I'm sure,” said he. “But I had no idea that the names of books were settled by the publishers.”

“Oh, they're not as a rule—he explained that to me; he said that only in your case Messrs. Shekels & Shackles were under the impression that you should know just what the public expected from you.”

“And their idea is that the writer of a book of travels should make it his business to provide the public with precisely what they expect? Well, I can't say that the notion is an extravagant one. Most of the volumes of travel which have been written, from the days of Sir John Mandeville, down, have shown a desire on the part of the authors to accommodate themselves to the views of the publishers and the public. I'm not so sure, however, about 'Homeless in Hades.'”