Little Women by Louisa May Alcott (e books free to read TXT) 📕

dressed herself in her best, and, trying to persuade herself that she was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of cigar-smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their heels rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of them took the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by this reception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much embarrassment⁠—

“Excuse me, I was looking for the Weekly Volcano office; I wished to see Mr. Dashwood.”

Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman, and, carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced, with a nod, and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep. Feeling that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo produced her manuscript, and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence, blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the occasion.

“A friend of mine desired me to offer⁠—a story⁠—just as an experiment⁠—would like your opinion⁠—be glad to write more if this suits.”

While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript, and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers, and casting critical glances up and down the neat pages.

“Not a first attempt, I take it?” observing that the pages were numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon⁠—sure sign of a novice.

“No, sir; she has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in the Blarneystone Banner.”

“Oh, did she?” and Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look, which seemed to take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to the buttons on her boots. “Well, you can leave it, if you like. We’ve more of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at present; but I’ll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week.”

Now, Jo did not like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn’t suit her at all; but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but bow and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified, as she was apt to do when nettled or abashed. Just then she was both; for it was perfectly evident, from the knowing glances exchanged among the gentlemen, that her little fiction of “my friend” was considered a good joke; and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as he closed the door, completed her discomfiture. Half resolving never to return, she went home, and worked off her irritation by stitching pinafores vigorously; and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh over the scene, and long for next week.

When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced; Mr. Dashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable; and Mr. Dashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his manners: so the second interview was much more comfortable than the first.

“We’ll take this” (editors never say I), “if you don’t object to a few alterations. It’s too long, but omitting the passages I’ve marked will make it just the right length,” he said, in a businesslike tone.

Jo hardly knew her own MS. again, so crumpled and underscored were its pages and paragraphs; but, feeling as a tender parent might on being asked to cut off her baby’s legs in order that it might fit into a new cradle, she looked at the marked passages, and was surprised to find that all the moral reflections⁠—which she had carefully put in as ballast for much romance⁠—had been stricken out.

“But, sir, I thought every story should have some sort of a moral, so I took care to have a few of my sinners repent.”

Mr. Dashwood’s editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had forgotten her “friend,” and spoken as only an author could.

“People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Morals don’t sell nowadays;” which was not quite a correct statement, by the way.

“You think it would do with these alterations, then?”

“Yes; it’s a new plot, and pretty well worked up⁠—language good, and so on,” was Mr. Dashwood’s affable reply.

“What do you⁠—that is, what compensation⁠—” began Jo, not exactly knowing how to express herself.

“Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of this sort. Pay when it comes out,” returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point had escaped him; such trifles often do escape the editorial mind, it is said.

“Very well; you can have it,” said Jo, handing back the story, with a satisfied air; for, after the dollar-a-column work, even twenty-five seemed good pay.

“Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one better than this?” asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and emboldened by her success.

“Well, we’ll look at it; can’t promise to take it. Tell her to make it short and spicy, and never mind the moral. What name would your friend like to put to it?” in a careless tone.

“None at all, if you please; she doesn’t wish her name to appear, and has no nom de plume,” said Jo, blushing in spite of herself.

“Just as she likes, of course. The tale will be out next week; will you call for the money, or shall I send it?” asked Mr. Dashwood, who felt a natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.

“I’ll call. Good morning, sir.”

As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful remark, “Poor and proud, as usual, but she’ll do.”

Following Mr. Dashwood’s directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational literature; but, thanks to the life-preserver thrown her by a friend, she came up again, not much the worse for her ducking.

Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and scenery; and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared upon her stage, and played their parts with as much