“That’s ... that’s what I was hoping you’d say, Mr. Davis.”
And now our favorite romantic author is seated with one leg thrown over the corner of a table. “Of course. Of course,” he exclaims, cordially, “I know your posters and your cover designs. And now you are starting a magazine and you would like one of my stories for your first number?”
“Yes, Mr. Davis. That is what I should like.”
“Of course I’ll write a story for you. I shall be happy to write a story; and I have one in mind that I think will be just the kind you will like for your new magazine.”
“Well, Mr. Davis, that’s something that’s just about as wonderful as anything that could possibly happen to anybody. Only ... only—”
“Only you are not really started and your magazine hasn’t begun to earn money, and so you are wondering—”
“Yes, Mr. Davis—”
“Well, lad,” and now Mr. Davis has his arm about your shoulders. “Well, lad, just go home to your Wayside Press print-shop in Springfield and don’t do any worrying about payment. Sometime when you are rich and feel like sending me something,—why, any amount you happen to send will be quite all right with me—and good luck go with you.”
(At this point it should be stated that when a small check goes to Mr. Davis, with an apology for it being just the first installment and that another check will go a month later, the return mail brings a pleasant letter of thanks and an acknowledgment of payment in full.)
And now, as you are recrossing Madison Square Park, your head so high in the clouds that not even the tips of your toes are touching the earth, all the birds in the neighborhood, including the sparrows, have gathered and are singing glad anthems of joy; and all the trees that an hour ago were just in green leaf are now billowed with beautiful flowers.