He went right to work on a long bank story. He wrote it over and over, and submitted it over and over, but it did not meet with success. One editor told him it was too lurid; another said it was immature. Henty swore it was the best thing he had ever seen. Is it not unfortunate that our manuscripts cannot be finally edited by someone who can appreciate us? Gods of Literature! what a bunch of stuff would be printed. Typewriter companies would do away with the instalment plan entirely.
Between seeding and haying the third spring, the boys built a bungalow, enlarged their animals' quarters, and hired a man. They were blessed with a pretty good crop, and the market was growing. Other settlers had come into the valley, and there was talk of a village springing up near-by. Henty began to wear a smile.
After the fall rush Evan settled down harder than ever to his literary efforts. He wrote articles on the bank. As if his style had suddenly come up to the required standard, editors began to write short letters of excuse with returned manuscripts; then to accept. Why waste words on the thrills Evan, yes, and Henty, experienced when they read the breezy stuff of "X. Bankclerk" in print!
In his letters home Evan intimated that he would have a surprise for them before long, but that was as much as he said. He filled pages describing his and Henty's vines and figtrees, and his father came back with: "I told you your grandfather was in you!" His mother rejoiced in his health but longed for him home; Lou called him a "rube;" and Frankie—Frankie did not have a chance to say anything because Evan had never answered that letter she wrote to New York.
Now, as the young man sat on the verandah of his bungalow, not listening to the greybirds and meadowlarks around him, he felt happy. He and Henty were going to make a trip back to Ontario in the autumn, and then he could meet the editors who had congratulated him on his "good dope," as one of them had described his articles. He rattled over the keys of his machine, after making the observation about Alfy, and was so engrossed in his work that he did not notice the approach of Henty.
A. P. had been to Vancouver, and was back sooner than expected. He seemed excited.
"Evan," he cried, jumping on the verandah, "we're made men! A syndicate wants our land! They're talking of a townsite!"
"The dickens!"
"Yes, sir. They offered me $60,000, half cash."
"You're drunk, A. P.!"