“So,” he cried, “you've come, have you! I tell you, young man, I have never been subjected to such an outrage as this in my life! I would not read another manuscript for you--why, I wouldn't stand for such an imposition from Balzac or Thackeray--no, sir, I wouldn't!” I stared at the man simply speechless with astonishment. “Why,” I panted, “what do you mean?” “What do I mean? Why, you have hounded me about this city until I'm crazy. There's no place I can go to escape you. You come to my office, you come here, you come to my club! You have made yourself a perfect pest at the publishers to every one! Why--” He stopped out of breath. Of course I have no courage or head with men--I was ready to grovel at his feet. “My dear sir,” I pleaded, “I assure you I didn't mean to do anything of the kind--it was only that the clerk kept telling me--” “I don't care what the clerk kept telling you! I tell you that that manuscript has been in the hands of the company since the day I told you I would leave it there. Of course there have been delays, there is all sorts of routine to go through with; but suppose all our contributors did the same thing--what would we do?” He was talking at me as if expecting a reply. Fortunately the right words came to my lips--I was really ready to cry with shame and perplexity. “I don't think it is quite the same with all your contributors,” I said, with a trembling voice. “While I have been waiting I have been simply starving.” It seemed to clear the atmosphere. He stared at me, and then he sat down. He was ashamed of himself, I could see. “Why,” he said, “you couldn't have been paid anything for months.” “I didn't know,” I said, “I didn't know anything about it. But I have been starving.” He spoke more quietly. “Mr. Stirling,” he said, “I'm very sorry about this, the whole thing has been unfortunate. Excuse me that I spoke angrily; let us not think any more about it.” I stood there, feeling almost like crying, I was so nervous. “Now, about that manuscript,” he went on, “I'm doing what I can to learn about it. It's been there all along, as I told you, and you will hear about it soon. Why, Mr. Stirling, I even took the trouble to send my secretary down there yesterday to make sure that it was all right.” “I did not want you to go to any such trouble,” I stammered. “That's all right,” he said, “don't mention it. Now they will have decided in a few days, and I will write you--” “No, please do not,” I said, still with my abject humility. “Don't take any more trouble--let me go there and find out--” “By no means!” said he. “Take my advice and don't go near there again under any circumstances. You can't tell how much an author hurts himself by troubling a publisher as you have done. Don't go near there--let me write to you.” I promised that I would; and then with more abjectness I got myself out of that room, and I went out and sat down upon a step near by, simply shaking like a leaf.