“My pals,” said Langford, pointing to two of them containing the classics of fiction, poetry and essays.
“My enemies,” he continued, nodding at the third bookcase, packed with books on law.
“Friends of mine,” he went on, pointing to a pen and inkwell on a small writing table.
He went over to one of the trunks that graced the window as seats. He raised the lid. It was filled to overflowing with rolls of paper, loose sheets and scraps, all closely written upon.
“My babies,” he laughed. “Behold in me the most prolific mother in all literature!”
“What are they?” inquired Phil.
“The offsprings of fancy,” returned Langford, grandiloquently; “essays, short stories, dramas, poems––all of no financial value. Dime novels worth fifty dollars a time, but all cashed. Advice to the Love Sick––five dollars a column––alas also unconvertible.”
Phil stood before him a little nonplussed, while Langford grinned and smoked on.
“I suffer continually the mental pangs of literary childbirth.”
He sat in a chair and lounged dreamily as he puffed out clouds of smoke, his long legs sprawling out in front of him.