Dick did not gasp for breath when he read it, or fall helplessly back into a chair, but he was terribly disappointed. To be sure, there were hundreds of other publishers, some of whom might want it; but for Brounlow & Company to refuse it he considered a bad sign. Refuse it? Of course that was what it meant. Dick had heard of such letters before. A merchant says bluntly that he doesn’t want the goods that are offered him; but a publisher, more polite, reads everything offered with a pleasure little short of delight, and is torn with poignant regret over what he is compelled to send back. For the next few months the postoffice department derived considerable revenue from Dick’s novel. After the Brounlow incident he sent it to Whitelow & Company, who read it with interest and returned it by registered mail. Pinklow & Company, Greenlow & Company, Blacklow & Company,--all the primary colors and many of the tints took it under consideration; some read it with interest and some with pleasure, but they were all of one mind about returning it by registered mail. “It’s a dead, flat failure, old fellow!” the unsuccessful author said to Darling when he concluded to waste no more postage stamps. “It’s a pretty strong verdict against it, that’s a fact,” Darling admitted. “Suppose you let me read it some day before you plant it in the bottom of your trunk.” “You’re a lucky fellow, Dick,” was Darling’s opinion after the reading. “If anybody had published that, you’d never have stopped kicking yourself. It’s as different from your newspaper work as day is from night--worse I mean. Occasionally there is a gleam of intellect in it, too. I should hardly fill up my trunk with it, unless you’re in need of ballast.” Florrie’s was the only dissenting voice. “There’s a conspiracy against you, Dick,” she insisted. “You have done something or other to offend those publishers, or their readers are jealous of your splendid work and don’t intend to give you a chance. It’s perfectly shameful the way they treat you!” But Florrie had not read the novel. CHAPTER XV. “THE THROUGH SLEEPER.” “Mr. Harding tells me you have asked for a month’s vacation, Dick, and that he has given it to you,” Darling said one night when they were eating their late supper together. “I am glad to hear it; a rest will do you good.” “I went to him direct instead of applying to you,” Dick answered, “because I thought it might be awkward for you to grant it, though you would not want to refuse me. But it is not for a rest; I am going to do some more writing.”