“'What you can't see,' I says, 'is that I came here just because I was the writer of this here composition. Money I don't desire to wish for. Being a rich man and a philanthropist, I give all I make off of this book to the poor. But it ain't everybody can experience the satisfiedness of seeing a reely genooine author. So I travel around exhibiting myself for the good of the public. And as a special and extraordinary thing--a sort of guarantee to one and all that they have seen a genooine living author--I write my autograph in each and every volume of this book that I sell at the small sum of one-fifty per. Think of it! Ten thousand verses; moral, intellectooal, and witty; cloth cover, and the author's own autograph written by himself, all for one-fifty. The autograph of the famous boy author.' “'That's a big bargain,' she says, thoughtful. “'Jigantic,' I says “'Genius is cert'nly a wonderful phenomenus,' she repeats again, dreamy. “'Ain't it!' I responds, sniffing to see if it was my pants that was scorching. 'Will you have one volume?' “She hesitated, and then she says, 'No. No, I don't dast to. Not yet. Not till I see how ma comes out. Mebby she'll purchase one before she gits through being talked to.' “I set straight upward on my hotly warmed chair. 'Being talked to!' I says, astonished. “'Yes,' says the sweet sample of girl. 'Your son, you know, Mister Samuel Mills; he's in the front room interviewing ma.' “'My son!' I ejaculates weakly, the thermometer in my spinal backbone going up ten thousand degrees hotter. “'Such an oldish son, too,' she says, sinfully joyous, 'for such a youngish father. He must have been two years old the day you were born. Genius is cert'nly a wonderful phenomenus!' “I set there a minute, wilted, but nervous. Then I got hot, and arose in anger. “'My son!' I says, scornful. 'So that's what he says, it is? Disgracing his father in that way! All right for him! I disown him out of my family. And I furthermore remark that he ain't my son, nor never was.' “'Well,' she says, 'you needn't get so hot about it. He's a hard worker. He's been here all day.' “'I ain't hot,' I says, forgetting that my temperature was torrid plus glowing, 'but I'm mad to think that that boy which I hired to sell my book should pass himself off as my son, and then stay talking all day in one place, instead of selling books throughout the promiscuous neighborhood.' “'Then,' she says, as if for the first time seeing light, 'that young man in their ain't no son of the author of this “Sin” book?' “'Never; subsequent nor previous, nor wasn't, nor will be,' I solemnly made prevarication. “'Well,' she says, 'he said he was when he come in; and me and ma didn't think it likely an author person would have his son out book-peddling, so we asservated back that he wasn't; and him and ma has been having a high-grade talking match all day in the front parlor to convince each other otherwise than what they are convinced of.'