"We have been counting on this book of yours for January publication," said they.
I tried to explain that the muse had abandoned me in a most heartless fashion.
"But the public demands a story from you," said they. "What have you been doing all summer?"
"Romancing," said I.
I don't know just how it came about, but the suggestion was made that I put into narrative form the lively history of my sojourn on the banks of the Danube, trusting implicitly to the imagination yet leaving nothing to it.
"But it's all such blithering rot," said I.
"So much the better," said they triumphantly—even eagerly.
"I do not suppose that you, as publishers, can appreciate the fact that an author may have a soul above skittles," said I indignantly. "I cannot, I will not write a line about myself, gentlemen. Not that I consider the subject sacred but—"
"Wait!" cried the junior member, his face aglow. "We appreciate the delicacy of—er—your feelings, Mr. Smart, but I have an idea,—a splendid idea. It solves the whole question. Your secretary is a most competent, capable young man and a genius after a fashion. I propose that he write the story. We'll pay him a lump sum for the work, put your name on the cover, and there you are. All you will have to do is to edit his material. How's that?"
And so it came to pass that I took myself off that evening for Hot Springs, secure in the thought that Poopendyke would attend to my literary estate far more capably than I could do it myself, and that my labours later on would be pleasantly devoted to the lazy task of editing, revising and deleting a tale already told....