And so he took his departure, and carried his manuscript to another publisher, and then went home, crushed and sick. Section 4. But the more Thyrsis thought of this plan, the more it came to possess him. If he could only get that book printed, it could not fail to make its impression! He had thought many times in his desperation of trying to publish it himself; and if he did that, he would have to pay the cost of the plates, of the printing and everything; whereas by this method he could get it for much less, and would have a hundred copies which he could send to critics and men of letters, in order to make certain of the book’s being read. When the manuscript came back from the next publisher, with a formal note of rejection, Thyrsis made up his mind that he would concentrate his efforts upon this plan. So he got down to another pot-boiler. An old sea-captain had told him a story of some American college boys who had stolen a sacred idol in China. Thyrsis saw a plot in that, and the editor of the “Treasure Chest” considered it a “bully” idea. So he toiled day and night for a couple more weeks, and earned another hundred dollars. And then he did something he had never done in his life before--he went to some relatives to beg. He pleaded how hard he had worked, and what a chance he had; he would pay back the money out of the first royalties from the book--which could not possibly fail to earn the hundred dollars he asked for. Besides this, he had some money left from his first story; and so he went to Mr. Taylor, who was affable and enthusiastic as ever, and paid his money and signed the contracts. He was told that his book would be ready for the spring-trade; which meant that he would have to possess his soul in patience for three months. Meantime he had forty dollars left--upon which he figured that he could have eight weeks of uninterrupted study. But alas, for the best-laid plans of men! It was on a Tuesday morning that he paid out his precious two hundred and twenty-five dollars; and on the next Thursday morning, as he was glancing through the newspapers, he gave a cry of dismay. “Corydon,” he called. “What’s the name of that lawyer, your trustee?” “John C. Hammond,” she replied. “He shot himself in his office yesterday!” exclaimed Thyrsis; and he read her the account, which stated that Hammond had been speculating, and was believed to have lost heavily in the recent slump in cotton. Corydon was staring at him with terror in her eyes. “What does it mean?” she cried. “I don’t know,” said Thyrsis. “We’ll have to inquire!”