These publishers, blase, cynical fellows, surely
believed in it.
It was fat and red and comfortable. It had a worldly, prosperous look.
"Reuben Hallard and His Adventures" ... Good Lord! What cheek.
There were five copies to give away. One between Bobby and Mrs. Galleon,
one for Stephen, one for Miss Monogue, one for Mrs. Brockett and one for
Mr. Zanti. "Reuben Hallard and His Adventures," by Peter Westcott. They
would be getting it now at the newspaper offices. _The Mascot_ would have a
copy and the fat little chocolate consumer. It would stand with a heap of
others, and be ticked off with a heap of others, for some youth to exercise
his wit upon. As to any one buying the book? Who ever saw any one buying a
six-shilling novel? It was only within the last year or so that the old
three volumes with their thirty-one-and-six had departed this life. The
publishers had assured Peter that this new six-shilling form was the thing.
"Please have you got 'Reuben Hallard' by Peter Westcott?... Thank you, I'll
take it with me."
No, it was inconceivable.
There poor Reuben would lie--deserted, still-born, ever dustier and dustier
whilst other stories came pouring, pouring from endless presses, covering,
crowding it down, stamping upon it, burying it.... "Here lies 'Reuben
Hallard.'..."
Poor Peter!
On Thursday, however, there was the tea-party--a Thursday never to be
forgotten whilst Peter was alive.
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