“I do. Listen, Ben,” said the novelist with enthusiasm. “You could count upon my assistance and co-operation. I would assume the editorship, and agree to have a story from my pen running constantly. Gloriana Podd would, I am sure, be glad to write for us. I know just what the public want, and between ourselves, I think the editor of the Bugle is often at fault. If it was in my hands I would make a good deal more out of it.”
“I am afraid, Mr. Snodgrass, I should hardly favor such an investment, and I am sure my guardian would not. He says he can invest the money so as to earn five per cent.”
“What’s five per cent.?” asked Sylvanus scornfully.
“Five per cent. on my legacy will make nearly two thousand dollars a year.”
“That is good, of course. I wish I had it, but you might make a good deal more by following my advice.”
“I don’t believe in going into any business which I don’t understand, Mr. Snodgrass. I hope you have been prosperous while I have been away.”
“Well, I can’t complain. I retain my popularity with American readers, but the publishers don’t appreciate me as they should. I recently asked the publisher of the Bugle if he wouldn’t give me twenty-five dollars more for my serials, but he declined. He intimated,” continued Mr. Snodgrass with tragic scorn, “that he could get along without me, and could easily supply my place. Did you ever hear of such ingratitude?”
“I am afraid he doesn’t appreciate you, Mr. Snodgrass.”
“No, Ben, he doesn’t. I furnish the brains and he furnishes the capital. That’s about the way the matter stands.”
“You get enough to do?”