"Thank you," said Van Sweller, rather coolly, "you are hardly courteous. But take care! it is at your own risk that you attempt to disregard a fundamental principle in metropolitan fiction--one that is dear alike to author and reader. I shall, of course attend to my duty when it comes time to rescue your heroine; but I warn you that it will be your loss if you fail to send me to-night to dine at ----.*" [Footnote: * See advertising column, "Where to Dine Well," in the daily newspapers.]
"I will take the consequences if there are to be any," I replied. "I am not yet come to be sandwich man for an eating-house."
I walked over to a table where I had left my cane and gloves. I heard the whirr of the alarm in the cab below and I turned quickly. Van Sweller was gone.
I rushed down the stairs and out to the curb. An empty hansom was just passing. I hailed the driver excitedly.
"See that auto cab halfway down the block?" I shouted. "Follow it. Don't lose sight of it for an instant, and I will give you two dollars!"
If I only had been one of the characters in my story instead of myself I could easily have offered $10 or $25 or even $100. But $2 was all I felt justified in expending, with fiction at its present rates.
The cab driver, instead of lashing his animal into a foam, proceeded at a deliberate trot that suggested a by-the-hour arrangement.
But I suspected Van Sweller's design; and when we lost sight of his cab I ordered my driver to proceed at once to ----.* [* See advertising column, "Where to Dine Well," in the daily newspapers.]
I found Van Sweller at a table under a palm, just glancing over the menu, with a hopeful waiter hovering at his elbow.
"Come with me," I said, inexorably. "You will not give me the slip again. Under my eye you shall remain until 11:30."
Van Sweller countermanded the order for his dinner, and arose to accompany me. He could scarcely do less. A fictitious character is but poorly equipped for resisting a hungry but live author who comes to drag him forth from a restaurant. All he said was: "You were just in time; but I think you are making a mistake. You cannot afford to ignore the wishes of the great reading public."
I took Van Sweller to my own rooms--to my room. He had never seen anything like it before.
"Sit on that trunk," I said to him, "while I observe whether the landlady is stalking us. If she is not, I will get things at a delicatessen store below, and cook something for you in a pan over the gas jet. It will not be so bad. Of course nothing of this will appear in the story."
"Jove! old man!" said Van Sweller, looking about him with interest, "this is a jolly little closet you live in! Where the devil do you sleep?--Oh, that pulls down! And I say--what is this under the corner of the carpet?--Oh, a frying pan! I see--clever idea! Fancy cooking over the gas! What larks it will be!"
"Think of anything you could eat?" I asked; "try a chop, or what?"
"Anything," said Van Sweller, enthusiastically, "except a grilled bone."
Two weeks afterward the postman brought me a large, fat envelope. I opened it, and took out something that I had seen before, and this typewritten letter from a magazine that encourages society fiction:
Your short story, "The Badge of Policeman O'Roon," is herewith
returned.
We are sorry that it has been unfavorably passed upon; but it
seems to lack in some of the essential requirements of our
publication.
The story is splendidly constructed; its style is strong and
inimitable, and its action and character-drawing deserve the
highest praise. As a story per se it has merit beyond anything
that we have read for some time. But, as we have said, it fails
to come up to some of the standards we have set.
Could you not re-write the story, and inject into it the social
atmosphere, and return it to us for further consideration? It is
suggested to you that you have the hero, Van Sweller, drop in for
luncheon or dinner once or twice at ----* or at the ----*
[* See advertising column, "Where to Dine Well," in the daily
newspapers.] which will be in line with the changes desired.
Very truly yours,
THE EDITORS.
[O. Henry wrote this for Ainslee's Magazine, where it appeared in March, 1903.]
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA
Mr. PENNE. . . . . . An Author Miss LORE. . . . . . An Amanuensis
SCENE--Workroom of Mr. Penne's popular novel factory.
MR. PENNE--Good morning, Miss Lore. Glad to see you so prompt. We should finish that June installment for the Epoch to-day. Leverett is crowding me for it. Are you quite ready? We will resume where we left off yesterday. (Dictates.) "Kate, with a sigh, rose from his knees, and----"
Miss LORE--Excuse me; you mean "rose from her knees," instead of "his," don't you?
MR. PENNE--Er--no--"his," if you please. It is the love scene in the garden. (Dictates.) "Rose from his knees where, blushing with youth's bewitching coyness, she had rested for a moment after Cortland had declared his love. The hour was one of supreme and tender joy. When Kate--scene that Cortland never--"
Miss LORE--Excuse me; but wouldn't it be more grammatical to say "when Kate SAW," instead of "seen"?
MR. PENNE--The context will explain. (DICTATES.) "When Kate--scene that Cortland never forgot--came tripping across the lawn it seemed to him the fairest sight that earth had ever offered to his gaze."
Miss LORE--Oh!
MR. PENNE (dictates)--"Kate had abandoned herself to the joy of her new-found love so completely, that no shadow of her former grief was cast upon it. Cortland, with his arm firmly entwined about her waist, knew nothing of her sighs--"
MISS LORE--Goodness! If he couldn't tell her size with his arm around--
MR. PENNE (frowning)--"Of her sighs and tears of the previous night."
MISS LORE--Oh!