“Ah, it’s a pity.”
“I shall try to draw Mr. Bruce into our circle,” said Sylvanus. “I have offered to introduce a story, if he will write one, to the notice of our editor.”
“Story? Ah yes,” said the poet condescendingly. “Do you ever write verse, Mr. Bruce?”
“I have never tried. I don’t think I could.”
“Of course it is much more difficult than to write stories.”
“Have you written anything new lately, Clyde?” asked Mr. Snodgrass.
“I have just sent one to the office of the Weekly Tomahawk. I would have sent it to the Atlantic Monthly, but that magazine is run by a clique, and no outsider stands any chance of getting in.”
“That is too bad!” said Sylvanus Snodgrass sympathizingly.
“But I shall yet succeed,” went on the poet, earnestly. “The time will come when they will apply to me, and ask me to name my own terms.”
“I hope so, I am sure. I experience the same difficulty. I offered a serial story to the Century three months ago, but it was respectfully declined. What do you think of that?”