“I’ve been to see the editor of the ‘Treasure Chest.’”
The “Treasure Chest” was a popular magazine of fiction, a copy of which Thyrsis had seen lying upon the table of their landlady. He had glanced through the first story, and had declared to Corydon that if he had a stenographer he could talk such a story at the rate of twenty thousand words a day.
“And did the editor see you?”
“Yes. He’s a big husky ‘advertising man’—he looks like a prize-fighter. He said if I could write, to go ahead and prove it. He pays a cent for five words—a hundred dollars for a complete serial. He pays on acceptance; and he said he’d read a scenario for me. So I’m going to try it.”
“What’s it to be about?” asked Corydon.
“I’m going to try what they call a ‘Zenda’ story,” said Thyrsis. “The editor says the readers of the ‘Treasure Chest’ haven’t got tired of ‘Zenda’ stories.”
And so Thyrsis spent the afternoon and evening wandering about in the park; and sometime after midnight he wrote out his scenario. The advantage of a “Zenda” story was that, as the adventures happened in an imaginary kingdom, there would be no need to study up “local color”. As for the conventional artificial dialect, he could get it from any of the “romances” in the nearby circulating library. He did not dare to take the scenario the next day, but waited a decent interval; and when he returned it was to report that the story was considered to be promising, and that he was to write twenty thousand words for a test.
Section 9. So Thyrsis shut himself up and went to work. Sometimes he wrote with rage seething in his heart, and sometimes with laughter on his lips. This latter was the case when he did the love-scenes—because of the “passion and color” he bestowed upon the fascinating countess and the clever young American engineer. He could have written the twenty thousand words in three days; but he waited ten days, so that the editor might not think that he was careless. And three days later he went back for the verdict.
The editor said it was good, and that if the rest was like it he would accept the story. So Thyrsis went to work again, and finished the manuscript, and put it away until time enough had elapsed. And meanwhile came a letter from the literary head of the third publishing-house, regretting that he could not accept the book.
It was such a friendly letter that Thyrsis went to call there, and met a pleasant and rather fine-souled gentleman, Mr. Ardsley by name, who told him a little about the problems he faced in life.