“Sit down. How are things with you, anyhow?”
“Oh, so-so.”
“That new song of yours will be out Friday. We have a rush order on it.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, and I’ve got good news for you. Windom is going to sing it next year with the minstrels. He was in here the other day and thought it was great.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“That song’s going to go, all right. You haven’t got any others, have you?”
“No, but I’ve got a tune. Would you mind having one of the boys take it down for me?”
“Surest thing you know. Here, Harry! Call Hatcher.”
Now comes the pianist and arranger, and a hearing and jotting down of the new melody in a private room. The favored author may have piano and pianist for an indefinite period any time. Lunch with the publishers awaits him if he remains until noon. His song, when ready, is heard with attention. The details which make for its publication are rushed. His royalties are paid with that rare smile which accompanies the payment of anything to one who earns money for another. He is to be petted, conciliated, handled with gloves.