Thyrsis had never heard of this publishing-house, but that did not chill his delight. He hurried downtown with the manuscript, and came back to report. The concern was lodged in two small rooms in an obscure office-building. The manager, a Mr. Taylor, was a man not particularly prepossessing in appearance, but he was a person of intelligence, and was evidently interested in the book. Moreover he had promised to read it at once.
And that same week came the reply—a reply which set the two almost beside themselves with happiness. “I have read your manuscript,” wrote Mr. Taylor. “And I have no hesitation in pronouncing it a work of genius. In fact, I am not sure but what it is the greatest piece of literature it has ever been my fortune as a publisher to come upon. It is vital, and passionately sincere, and I will stake my reputation upon the prophecy that it will be an instantaneous success. I hope that we may become the publishers of it, and will be glad if you will come to see me at once and talk over terms.”
Thyrsis read this aloud; and then he caught Corydon in his arms, and tears of joy and relief ran down her cheeks.
He went to see the publisher, and for ten or fifteen nunutes he listened to such a panegyric upon his book as made his cheeks burn. Visions of freedom and triumph rose before him—he had come into his own at last. An then Mr. Taylor proceeded to outline his business proposition—and as Thyrsis realized the nature of it, it was as if he had been suddenly plunged into an Arctic sea. The man wanted him to pay one-half the cost of the plates of his book, and in addition to guarantee to take one hundred copies at the wholesale price of ninety cents per copy!
“Is that—is that customary in publishing?” asked the other.
“Not always,” Mr. Taylor replied; “but it is our custom. You see, we are an unusual sort of publishing-house. We do not run after the best-sellers and the trash—we publish real books, books with a mission and a message for the world. And we advertise them widely—we make the world heed them; and so we feel justified in asking the author to help us with a part of the expense. We pay ten per cent. royalty, of course, and in addition the author has the hundred copies of his book, which he can sell to friends and others if he wishes.”
“What would it cost for my book?” Thyrsis asked.
And the man figured it up and told him it could be done for about two hundred and fifty dollars. “I’ll make it two hundred and twenty-five to you,” he said—“just because of my interest in your future.”
But Thyrsis only shook his head sadly. “I wish I could do it,” he said, “but I simply haven’t the money—that’s all.”
And so he took his departure, and carried his manuscript to another publisher, and then went home, crushed and sick.