'It's on the paper here—“Weaver and Calverly”? Father? Uncle?'
'No,' Henry managed to reply, 'it's—it's me.'
'You? Good heavens! We must stop that.' He tapped Henry's shoulder. 'Don't be a desk man! You're an artist! You don't seem to understand what we're getting at. Man, I'm going to make you! You're going to be famous in a year.'
He stopped short; took another swing around the room.
'How many of these stories are there, Calverly?'
'Twenty.'
'Fine. Short, snappy, and enough of 'em to make a very neat book. By the way, I'm starting a book department in the spring. 'What do you want for 'em?'
Henry could only look appealingly at his host.
'I'll pay liberally. I tell you frankly I mean to hold you. Make it worth your while. You're going to be my author? Henry Calverly, a Galbraith author. What do you say to a hundred apiece. That's two thousand.'
Henry would have gasped had he not felt utterly spent.