“It will delight me, sir, of course, to accept the first copy,” said Mr. M. A. Dodson, speaking with a quiet dignity and a mature reserve which became him superbly; “it will overwhelm me with honour, but if my acceptance of the first copy could in any way be misconstrued—that is, sir, I mean to say, the freedom I have been guilty of in coming here this afternoon to speak to you on the subject could be misconstrued—I should greatly prefer to obtain the first copy by purchase in the usual manner. And after all, sir,” Mr. M. A. Dodson concluded, with an arch smile, “if you will permit me to say it, sir, the labourer is worthy of his hire. If this custom, sir, became in any sense general of an author giving away his own works, every author, sir, would either have to become his own publisher, or every publisher would have to become his own author.”
The glow behind the immaculate waistcoat of Mr. Octavius Crumpett was heightened to such a degree by these scruples, and by the cultivated terms in which they gained expression, that the good man was fain to embody it by beaming like a seraph.
“Pray, my dear Mr. Dodson,” purred his august employer, “do not vex a nice conscience with scruples that are not in the least necessary. I shall be charmed if you will allow me to present you with the first copy of my—ah, little book. Will you kindly ask Mr. Davis to give you one of the copies set apart for review? and if, Mr. Dodson, you will take an early opportunity of telling me precisely what you think about it I shall be honoured indeed, for I perceive, Mr. Dodson, that you have a real and deep love of letters.”
The manner in which Mr. M. A. Dodson took leave of Mr. Octavius Crumpett was entirely worthy, in the amplest sense, of two such ornaments of their age. As the head of the firm watched the close-knit figure of Mr. M. A. Dodson recede through the door of his room, he said for his own private delectation: “This house undoubtedly has an atmosphere of its own. It seems to exude an aroma. That is a very remarkable youth; a youth of precocious attainment. He talks like a book.”
Mr. M. Arnold Dodson, with his hand on the door of Mr. G. Eliot Davis, said to himself, “I never talk to Octavius without wanting to run straight out into the street to beat out the brains of a little boy in a sailor suit.”
“Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, entering modestly the sanctum of that worthy, “Mr. Octavius’s compliments, and will you have the kindness to give M. Arnold Dodson a review copy of his translation of Homer?”
“Have you a signed order, Dodson, to that effect?” said Mr. Davis, who cloaked his profound astonishment somewhat ineffectually in a display of officialdom.
“As you appear to doubt my bona fides, Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, with leisurely dignity, “perhaps you will have the condescension to verify them for yourself.”
“Very good, Dodson,” said Mr. Davis, who by now had regained his own natural self-possession, which was not inconsiderable. “Excuse me for one moment. Take a chair. Make yourself quite at home.”
“I shall make myself quite at home a good deal sooner than you think, you young swine,” said Mr. Dodson through clenched teeth, as Mr. Davis betook himself to the presence of Mr. Octavius Crumpett. “Jack in office! But your days are numbered, my son, your days are numbered!”