'Most twenty-one! And you have to lie down before nine o'clock! Good God, boy, don't you see——'
'Oh, come, Galbraith!'
'Well, I'll put it this way:—Here's a young man that can work magic. Magic!' He waved the bundle of clippings. 'Nothing like it since Kipling and Stevenson! First thing's to take care of him, isn't it?'
Mr Merchant winked at the staring, crushed youth on the sofa.
'Then you like the stories, Galbraith?'
'Like'em! Of course I like 'em. What do you think I'm talking about?... Like 'em! Hmpf! Tell you what I'm going to do. A new thing in American publishing. But they're a new kind of stories. I'm going to reprint 'em, as they stand, in Galbraith's. What do you think o' that? A bit original, eh? I'll advertise that they've been printed before. Play it up. Tell how I found 'em. Put over my new author.' He shook his finger again at the author in question. 'Understand, I'm going to pay you just as if you'd submitted the script to me. That's how I work. Cut out all the old editorial nonsense. Red tape. If I like a thing I print it. I edit Galbraith's to suit myself.
I succeed because there are a million and a half others like me. And I print the best. I'm the editor of Galbraith's Oh, I keep a few desk men down there at the office. For the details. One of 'em thought he was the editor. Little short fellow. I stood him a month. Had to go to England. The day I landed I walked in on him and said, “Frank, pack up! Get out! Take a month's pay. I'm the editor.”'
He snorted at the memory, and paced down the room, waving the clippings. Henry sat up, following him with anxious eyes.
When the extraordinary little man came back he said, shortly: 'All tyrants have short legs.' And walked off again.
'Who's Calverly?' he asked, the next time around.