“We are so over-stocked with songs now, Madam, that I don’t believe there’s much use in our hearing it. Could you come in next Friday? We’ll have more leisure then and can give you more attention.” The lady looks the failure she has scored, but retreats, leaving the ground clear for the chance arrival of the real author, the individual whose position is attested by one hit or mayhap many. His due is that deference which all publishers, if not the public, feel called upon to render, even if at the time he may have no reigning success. [Illustration: Whence the Song] “Hello, Frank, how are you? What’s new?” The author, cane in hand, may know of nothing in particular. “Sit down. How are things with you, anyhow?” “Oh, so-so.” “That new song of yours will be out Friday. We have a rush order on it.” “Is that so?” “Yes, and I’ve got good news for you. Windom is going to sing it next year with the minstrels. He was in here the other day and thought it was great.” “Well, that’s good.” “That song’s going to go, all right. You haven’t got any others, have you?” “No, but I’ve got a tune. Would you mind having one of the boys take it down for me?” “Surest thing you know. Here, Harry! Call Hatcher.” Now comes the pianist and arranger, and a hearing and jotting down of the new melody in a private room. The favored author may have piano and pianist for an indefinite period any time. Lunch with the publishers awaits him if he remains until noon. His song, when ready, is heard with attention. The details which make for its publication are rushed. His royalties are paid with that rare smile which accompanies the payment of anything to one who earns money for another. He is to be petted, conciliated, handled with gloves. At his heels, perhaps, another author, equally successful, maybe, but almost intolerable because of certain marked eccentricities of life and clothing. He is a negro, small, slangy, strong in his cups, but able to write a good song, occasionally a truly pathetic ballad. “Say, where’s that gem o’ mine?” “What?” “That effusion.” “What are you talking about?” “That audience-killer--that there thing that’s goin’ to sweep the country like wildfire--that there song.” Much laughter and apology. “It will be here Friday, Gussie.” “Thought it was to be here last Monday?” “So it was, but the printers didn’t get it done. You know how those things are, Gussie.” “I know. Gimme twenty-five dollars.” “Sure. But what are you going to do with it?” “Never you mind. Gimme twenty-five bones. To-morrow’s rent day up my way.”