"Oh—these editors!" he exclaimed, shaking his fist. "Wouldn't I like to tell some of 'em what I think of 'em! Yes; there are exceptions—thank the Lord!—but Samphire will soon find out that most of 'em are pinchers. Six men in this room sling ink for a living. Is there one who can stand up and swear that he's not been squeezed?" Not a man moved. "You see—they sit tight. In this trade of ours the worker is not paid for his work when it's done. He has to wait for his pennies, poor devil, although he may be starving. And often he isn't paid at all. A paper goes to pot, or the special article he has been asked—asked, mind you—to write is pigeon-holed and doesn't appear, or there is a change of management. Any recourse? Why, man, if you send one of 'em a lawyer's letter, you may get your cheque by return of post, but never a line will you write for my gentleman again. Never more, as the raven said! One can't afford to quarrel with 'em. And don't they know it—don't they know it, as they blandly turn the screw? Now, in America, with the big magazines, it's different. You submit your stuff, and if it's available a cheque comes along with the acceptance, and a good cheque too. Over here, a few writers, of course, dictate terms, but the many take what they get with a humble if not a grateful heart. If you've private means of your own, you're all right, but if you have any idea of supporting yourself with the pen—why, God help you!—for the editors won't."
"Cool yourself with a whisky and soda," said the popular author, touching the electric bell. "Our profession," he looked at Mark, "is like all others, overcrowded, and editors and publishers carry on their business along business lines. I'll admit that most authors are not fit to deal with them in a business way. They don't like to haggle, and they don't know how to haggle. Personally, I employ an agent."
"That's all right for you," Tommy retorted, "but an agent's not much use unless there's an established market for one's wares. What's this book of yours about, Samphire?"
"The East End," said Mark.
"Um—the slums treated humorously?"
"I've tried to stick to the facts."
"And you expect to sell 'em as fiction? Oh—you optimist!"
"A play's the thing," observed another scribbler. "Write plays."
"Any fool can write a play," said the little man, very scornfully. "I—mot qui sous parle—have written plays, but it takes a diplomatist to get them read and a genius to get them accepted."
Mark returned to Weybridge rather despondent.