Publisher (nastily). I tell you that it's no earthly use your asking about profits, because there are none.
Author (amazed). No profits! And you really mean to tell me that the public has not thought fit to purchase my shilling work of genius—The Maiming of Mendoza? By our agreement only a paltry six thousand copies of the work had to be bought before my royalty of a penny a volume began.
Publisher. I am quite aware of it. The sale of the six thousand copies would just about have repaid us for cost of production. As a matter of fact, only three thousand have been sold. We've lost heavily, and very much regret we were ever induced to accept the work.
Author. And you really ask me to believe that after such a sale as that a loss on your part is possible? Why, if you take price of printing at——
[Goes elaborately into cost of production.
Publisher. Yes, but you see the price of everything has gone up in our trade. Binding is now ten per cent. dearer, composing is——
[Also goes into precise and prolonged details.
Author (turning desperate at last). Oh, let us end this chatter! You really say that no cheque whatever is due to me for all my labours?
Publisher. Not a single penny. It's the other way about.
Author (leaving). And you call this "the beneficial system of royalties," do you? Good day! And if I don't set the Society of Authors at you before I am a day older, then my name's not Bulwer Makepeace Defoe Smith!