Into this glad era a young man steps off a Twenty-third Street horse-car. This young man, now an ambitious designer, printer, editor and publisher, is yourself. At the age of twenty-seven you are sporting the encouraging beginnings of a mustache, still too thin to permit of twirling at the tips. There is also the brave suggestion of a Vandyke. These embellishments are brown, as is also true of abundant and wavy hair of artistic and poetic length. Your waistcoat is buttoned high, and your soft, white collar is adorned with a five-inch-wide black cravat tied in a flowing bowknot. Your short jacket and tight-fitting pants quite possibly need pressing. A black derby and well-polished shoes complete your distinguished appearance. Many scrubbings have failed to remove all traces of printing ink from beneath and at the base of your finger nails. You are on your way to Scribner’s. A few moments later we find you seated in a leather-upholstered chair in the editorial department of this famous publishing house. You are waiting patiently and hopefully while an editor is penning a note of introduction to Richard Harding Davis, the popular writer of romantic fiction. Now, the note safely bestowed in your breast pocket, the envelope showing above a liberal display of silk handkerchief and thus plainly in view of passing pedestrians who would doubtless be filled with envy did they but know its contents, you are crossing Madison Square Park on your way to one of the Twenties, where Mr. Davis has his lodging. You reach the house, walk up the steps and rap. “Is Mr. Davis at home? Why ... why you are Mr. Davis. I ... I didn’t recognize you at first. Seeing you portrayed in Mr. Gibson’s illustrations to some of your romances--” “And now seeing me in this bathrobe you naturally were a bit confused?” “Yes, I was.” “I’m not at all surprised.” “Here, Mr. Davis, is a letter, I mean a note introducing me to you.” “How about coming inside while I read the note?” “That’s ... that’s what I was hoping you’d say, Mr. Davis.” And now our favorite romantic author is seated with one leg thrown over the corner of a table. “Of course. Of course,” he exclaims, cordially, “I know your posters and your cover designs. And now you are starting a magazine and you would like one of my stories for your first number?” “Yes, Mr. Davis. That is what I should like.” “Of course I’ll write a story for you. I shall be happy to write a story; and I have one in mind that I think will be just the kind you will like for your new magazine.” “Well, Mr. Davis, that’s something that’s just about as wonderful as anything that could possibly happen to anybody. Only ... only--” “Only you are not really started and your magazine hasn’t begun to earn money, and so you are wondering--” “Yes, Mr. Davis--”