I succeed because there are a million and a half others like me. And I print the best. I'm the editor of _Galbraith's_ Oh, I keep a few desk men down there at the office. For the details. One of 'em thought he was the editor. Little short fellow. I stood him a month. Had to go to England. The day I landed I walked in on him and said, “Frank, pack up! Get out! Take a month's pay. I'm the editor.”' He snorted at the memory, and paced down the room, waving the clippings. Henry sat up, following him with anxious eyes. When the extraordinary little man came back he said, shortly: 'All tyrants have short legs.' And walked off again. 'Who's Calverly?' he asked, the next time around. 'It's on the paper here--“Weaver and Calverly”? Father? Uncle?' 'No,' Henry managed to reply, 'it's--it's me.' 'You? Good heavens! We must stop that.' He tapped Henry's shoulder. 'Don't be a desk man! You're an artist! You don't seem to understand what we're getting at. Man, I'm going to make you! You're going to be famous in a year.' He stopped short; took another swing around the room. 'How many of these stories are there, Calverly?' 'Twenty.' 'Fine. Short, snappy, and enough of 'em to make a very neat book. By the way, I'm starting a book department in the spring. 'What do you want for 'em?' Henry could only look appealingly at his host. 'I'll pay liberally. I tell you frankly I mean to hold you. Make it worth your while. You're going to be my author? Henry Calverly, a Galbraith author. What do you say to a hundred apiece. That's two thousand.' Henry would have gasped had he not felt utterly spent. He sat motionless, hands limp on his knees, chin down. 'Not enough,' said Merchant. Henry shifted one hand in ineffectual protest. He was frightened. 'It's pretty near enough. After all, Merchant, it's a case of a new writer. I've got to make him. It'll cost money.' 'True. But I should think----' 'Say a hundred and fifty. That's three thousand. Will you take that, Calverly? 'What for?' asked Merchant. 'What are you buying exactly?' 'Oh, serial rights. Pay a reasonable royalty on the book, of course. But I've got to publish the book, too. And I want a long-term contract. Here!' He sat down and figured with a pencil on the edge of the evening paper. 'How about this? I'm to have exclusive control of the Henry Calverly matter for five years----' 'Too long,' said Mr Merchant. 'Well--three years. I'm to see every word before he offers it elsewhere. And for what I accept I'd pay at the same rate per word as for these stories. And books at the same royalty as we agree on for this.' 'Fine for you. Guarantees your control of him. But he gets nothing. No guarantee.' 'What would be right then? I'd do the fair thing. He'll never regret tying up with me.' 'You'd better agree to pay him something--say twenty-five a week--as a minimum, to be charged against serial payments. That is, if you want to tie him up. I'm not sure I'd advise him to do even that, now.'