"You do not understand," he replied, anxiously. "You do not understand, Dr. Weatherby. A magazine requires great preparation—great preparation, sir—and particularly a scientific magazine, Dr. Weatherby."
"Ah," I said. "I see."
"Great preparation, sir," the little man went on, leaning forward and tapping me on the knee. "There must be subscribers, sir."
"To be sure," I assented. "They are quite essential, I believe."
"Very," said Hiram Ptolemy. "Very, sir. We must have fifty at the fewest before we go to press. My publisher is obdurate—fifty, he says, or he will not invest a penny—not a penny, sir."
"And you have already—?" I inquired. I was sorry afterwards to have asked the question. It was not delicate. I asked it thoughtlessly, intending only to evince my interest in the cause. Coloring slightly, he wet his lips and cleared his throat before replying.
"One, sir; only one, as yet."
"Then put me down number two," I said, eager to retrieve my blunder.
His face lighted, but only for a moment, and turning an embarrassed countenance upon Letitia, and then on me, he stammered: