Thus encouraged I told him of A Son of the Middle Border.
He was interested. "Where is the manuscript? Is it complete?"
"It is. I have it with me at the hotel."
"Send it down to me," he said quickly, "I'll read it and give you a verdict at once."
In an illogical glow of hope I hastened to fetch the manuscript, and in less than two hours it was in his hands.
I speak of my hope as "illogical" for if the literary monthly of my own publishers could not find a place for it, how could I reasonably expect a hustling, bustling popular weekly like Collier's to use it?
Nevertheless something in Sullivan's voice and manner restored my confidence, and when I called on the editor of the Century I was able to assume the tone of successful authorship. The closer I got to my market the more assured I became. I counted for something in New York. My thirty years of effort were remembered in my favor.
On Tuesday Sullivan, who had been called to the West, wired me from Chicago that A Son of the Middle Border would make an admirable serial and that his assistants would take the matter up with me. "I predict a great success for it."
That night I sent a message to my wife in which I exultantly said, "Rejoice! I've sold The Middle Border to Collier's Weekly. Our troubles are over for a year at least."
Two days later Collier's took a short story at four hundred dollars and the Century gave me three hundred for an article on James A. Herne, and when I boarded the train for Chicago the following week I was not only four thousand dollars better off than when I came—I had regained my faith in the future. My task was clearly outlined. For the seventh time I set to work revising A Son of the Middle Border, preparing it for serial publication.