“I did not,” I retorted, “because you saw them first. MY interior is in its normal condition. As for yours--” “Mine,” he interrupted, filling his pipe from my tobacco pouch, “being accustomed to a breakfast, not a gorge, is abnormal but satisfactory, thank you--quite satisfactory.” “That,” said I, “we will discuss later, when I have you out back of the bar in my catboat. Judging from present indications there will be some sea-running. The 'Hephzy' is a good, capable craft, but a bit cranky, like the lady she is named for. I imagine she will roll.” He didn't like that. You see, I had sailed with him before and I remembered. “Ho-se-a,” he drawled, “you have a vivid imagination. It is a pity you don't use more of it in those stories of yours.” “Humph! I am obliged to use the most of it on the royalty statements you send me. If you call me 'Hosea' again I will take the 'Hephzy' across the Point Rip. The waves there are fifteen feet high at low tide. See here, I asked you a serious question and I should like a serious answer. Jim, what IS the matter with me? Have I written out or what is the trouble?” He looked at me again. “Are you in earnest?” he asked. “I am, very much in earnest.” “And you really want to talk shop after a breakfast like that and on a morning like this?” “I do.” “Was that why you asked me to come to Bayport and spend the week-end?” “No-o. No, of course not.” “You're another; it was. When you met me at the railroad station yesterday I could see there was something wrong with you. All this morning you've had something on your chest. I thought it was the biscuits, of course; but it wasn't, eh?” “It was not.” “Then what was it? Aren't we paying you a large enough royalty?” “You are paying me a good deal larger one than I deserve. I don't see why you do it.” “Oh,” with a wave of the hand, “that's all right. The publishing of books is a pure philanthropy. We are in business for our health, and--” “Shut up. You know as well as I do that the last two yarns of mine which your house published have not done as well as the others.” I had caught him now. Anything remotely approaching a reflection upon the business house of which he was the head was sufficient to stir up Jim Campbell. That business, its methods and its success, were his idols. “I don't know any such thing,” he protested, hotly. “We sold--” “Hang the sale! You sold quite enough. It is an everlasting miracle to me that you are able to sell a single copy. Why a self-respecting person, possessed of any intelligence whatever, should wish to read the stuff I write, to say nothing of paying money for the privilege, I can't understand.” “You don't have to understand. No one expects an author to understand anything. All you are expected to do is to write; we'll attend to the rest of it. And as for sales--why, 'The Black Brig'--that was the last one, wasn't it?--beat the 'Omelet' by eight thousand or more.”