"I want very much to run it as a serial in the magazine," said the editor.
"I'll be very proud, sir."
"Well, now, what do you think we ought to pay for it? Just for the serial rights, you know. Of course I ought to explain that you are a new and untried author, and so on. But to my mind that's cheating. Either a thing is or it isn't. I dare say I'm wrong ... in a world in which nothing is certain ... however ... what do you think we ought to pay for the serial rights?
"I'll leave it to you, sir."
"Well, the magazine can afford to pay three hundred pounds. And we will talk about the book rights later."
Such a sum was beyond the Sailor's wildest dreams. Truth to tell he had dreamed very little upon that aspect of the matter. He knew the value of money, therefore it had never occurred to him that it would be within the power of a pen and a bottle of ink to bring it to him in such fabulous quantities. He seemed just now to be living in a dream.
"Three hundred pounds, then," said Mr. Ambrose. "And I wish the magazine could have paid more without injustice to itself. But its audience is small, though select—as we hope—at any rate."
The Sailor's manner showed very clearly that no apology was called for. Such a sum was princely. Gratitude was the emotion uppermost, and he did his best to express it in his queer, disjointed way.
"I'll always remember your kindness, sir," he said huskily. "I'd never have been able to make anything of it at all if it hadn't been for you."
"Oh, yes, you would. Not so soon, perhaps, but it's all there. Anyhow, I'm very glad if I've been a bit of use at the first fence."