“And about that Oxford publisher,” said Dr. Maynard, suddenly.
They all laughed, except the Philosopher, who turned a reproving eye upon his friend.
“That Oxford publisher is a fact,” he said. “You apparently doubt his existence, Maynard! Nor am I likely, I, of all men—to advance a mere figment as a publisher? He is no airy vision!—he is a hard, inexorable fact! He will be here to-morrow.”
“Positively, Craig, you are a wonderful fellow!” said Dr. Maynard, with a smile. “You seem to manage everything your own way!”
The Philosopher gave a little shrug of his shoulders.
“Not quite!” he said. “But probably if I had everything my own way it would be very bad for me. As concerns the Oxford publisher I have nothing to do with him except persuading him to come here and ‘consider’ the publication of your great work. For a publisher to ‘consider’ anything is a great concession. A publisher is a majestic being. He holds, as it were, the fate of the future in his hands. For if the Publisher will not publish the author what becomes of the Author’s work? Horrible to contemplate! It may perish! The dear little child of six years who has just committed the crime of writing verses which its parents pay a press-man to ‘boom,’ may be denied a full hearing! Think of it! Though truly as long as the author pays for being published, it will be all right. But you, my dear Maynard, will not pay—”
“Cannot!” interposed the old Doctor.
“True! Cannot. Then,—whether it will be all right or all wrong, nobody can predict.”
“It will be all right,” interposed Jack, suddenly and with fervour, “if you’ve taken it in hand!”
The Philosopher almost blushed. Certainly a pale red suffused the higher portion of his cheek-bones. Then he waved his hand deprecatingly.