He was too excited for delay, and donning his hat, he took his way with all speed to Cutt & Slashem's office. At that instant he had more faith in his novel than ever. As he walked rapidly along he compared it with some of the stories issued by the firm that had rejected it, to the great disadvantage of the latter.
"I wish to see Mr. Cutt or Mr. Slashem," he said, imperiously, as he entered the counting room.
"Both are in," said the office boy, imperturbably. "Which will you have?"
"I will see them together."
Had they been tigers, fresh from an Indian jungle, it would have made no difference to him.
The boy asked for his card, vanished with it, returned and bade him follow. Up a flight of stairs they went, then to the left, then to the right, then across a little hall. A door with the name of the house and the additional word "Private" loomed before them.
"Come in!" was heard in response to the knock of the office boy.
Roseleaf entered, something slower than a cannon ball, and yet considerably faster than a snail. The two principal members of the firm were sitting together, with lighted cigars in their mouths, examining a lot of paper samples that lay upon a table. They did no more at first than glance up and nod, not having finished the business upon which they were engaged.
"Is it any better than the last?" asked Mr. Slashem, referring to the sample his partner was examining.
"It's just as good, at least," was the answer. "And an eighth of a cent a pound less. I think we had better order five hundred reams."