Part 51

It came about, therefore, that one day Philip made his way down into the city to seek an interview with Mr. Mavick. He found him, after some inquiry, in a barren little office, occupying one of the rented desks with three or four habitues of the Street, one of them an old man like himself, the others mere lads who did not intend to remain long in such cramped quarters.

Mr. Mavick arose when his visitor stood at his desk, buttoned up his frock-coat, and extended his hand with a show of business cordiality, and motioned him to a chair. Philip was greatly shocked at the change in Mr. Mavick's appearance.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “for disturbing you in business hours.”

“No disturbance,” he answered, with something of the old cynical smile on his lips.

“Long ago I called to see you on the errand I have now, but you were not in town. It was, Mr. Mavick,” and Philip hesitated and looked down, “in regard to your daughter.”

“Ah, I did not hear of it.”

“No? Well, Mr. Mavick, I was pretty presumptuous, for I had no foothold in the city, except a law clerkship.”

“I remember--Hunt, Sharp & Tweedle; why didn't you keep it?”

“I wasn't fitted for the law.”

“Oh, literature? Does literature pay?”

“Not in itself, not for many,” and Philip forced a laugh. “But it led to a situation in a first-rate publishing house--an apprenticeship that has now given me a position that seems to be permanent, with prospects beyond, and a very fair salary. It would not seem much to you, Mr. Mavick,” and Philip tried to laugh again.

“I don't know,” replied Mr. Mavick. “If a fellow has any sort of salary these times, I should advise him to hold on to it. By-the-way, Mr. Burnett, Hunt's a Republican, isn't he?”

“He was,” replied Philip, “the last I knew.”

“Do you happen to know whether he knows Bilbrick, the present Collector?”

“Mr. Bilbrick used to be a client of his.”

“Just so. I think I'll see Hunt. A salary isn't a bad thing for a--for a man who has retired pretty much from business. But you were saying, Mr. Burnett?”

“I was going to say, Mr. Mavick, that there was a little something more than my salary that I can count on pretty regularly now from the magazines, and I have had another story, a novel, accepted, and--you won't think me vain--the publisher says it will go; if it doesn't have a big sale he will--”

“Make it up to you?”

“Not exactly,” and Philip laughed; “he will be greatly mistaken.”

“I suppose it is a kind of lottery, like most things. The publishers have to take risks. The only harm I wish them is that they were compelled to read all the stuff they try to make us read. Ah, well. Mr. Burnett, I hope you have made a hit. It is pretty much the same thing in our business. The publisher bulls his own book and bears the other fellow's. Is it a New York story?”

“Partly; things come to a focus here, you know.”

“I could give you points. It's a devil of a place. I guess the novelists are too near to see the romance of it. When I was in Rome I amused myself by diving into the mediaeval records. Steel and poison were the weapons then. We have a different method now, but it comes to the same thing, and we say we are more civilized. I think our way is more devilishly dramatic than the old brute fashion. Yes, I could give you points.”

“I should be greatly obliged,” said Philip, seeing the way to bring the conversation back to its starting point; “your wide experience of life--if you had leisure at home some time.”

“Oh,” replied Mavick, with more good-humor in his laugh than he had shown before, “you needn't beat about the bush. Have you seen Evelyn?”

“No, not since that dinner at the Van Cortlandts'.”

“Huh! for myself, I should be pleased to see you any time, Mr. Burnett. Mrs. Mavick hasn't felt like seeing anybody lately. But I'll see, I'll see.”

The two men rose and shook hands, as men shake hands when they have an understanding.

“I'm glad you are doing well,” Mr. Mavick added; “your life is before you, mine is behind me; that makes a heap of difference.”