“Yes, yes. So I did, Mother, so I did. You was right and I was wrong. Twenty-eight hundred ain't exactly a million, Al, but it's a darn sight more than I ever cal'lated you'd make from that book. Or 'most anybody else ever made from any book, fur's that goes,” he added, with a shake of the head. “I declare, I--I don't understand it yet. And a poetry book, too! Who in time BUYS 'em all? Eh?” Albert was looking at the check and the royalty statement. “So this is why I couldn't get any satisfaction from the publisher,” he observed. “I wrote him two or three times about my royalties, and he put me off each time. I began to think there weren't any.” Captain Zelotes smiled. “That's your grandma's doin's,” he observed. “The check came to us a good while ago, when we thought you was--was--well, when we thought--” “Yes. Surely, I understand,” put in Albert, to help him out. “Yes. That's when 'twas. And Mother, she was so proud of it, because you'd earned it, Al, that she kept it and kept it, showin' it to all hands and--and so on. And then when we found out you wasn't--that you'd be home some time or other--why, then she wouldn't let me put it in the bank for you because she wanted to give it to you herself. That's what she said was the reason. I presume likely the real one was that she wanted to flap it in my face every time she crowed over my bad prophesyin', which was about three times a day and four on Sundays.” “Zelotes Snow, the idea!” “All right, Mother, all right. Anyhow, she got me to write your publisher man and ask him not to give you any satisfaction about those royalties, so's she could be the fust one to paralyze you with 'em. And,” with a frank outburst, “if you ain't paralyzed, Al, I own up that _I_ am. Three thousand poetry profits beats me. _I_ don't understand it.” His wife sniffed. “Of course you don't,” she declared. “But Albert does. And so do I, only I think it ought to have been ever and ever so much more. Don't you, yourself, Albert?” The author of The Lances of Dawn was still looking at the statement of its earnings. “Approximately eighteen thousand sold at fifteen cents royalty,” he observed. “Humph! Well, I'll be hanged!” “But you said it would be twenty-five cents, not fifteen,” protested Olive. “In your letter when the book was first talked about you said so.” Albert smiled. “Did I?” he observed. “Well, I said a good many things in those days, I'm afraid. Fifteen cents for a first book, especially a book of verse, is fair enough, I guess. But eighteen thousand SOLD! That is what gets me.” “You mean you think it ought to be a lot more. So do I, Albert, and so does Rachel. Why, we like it a lot better than we do David Harum. That was a nice book, but it wasn't lovely poetry like yours. And David Harum sold a million. Why shouldn't yours sell as many? Only eighteen thousand--why are you lookin' at me so funny?”