Short Fiction by O. Henry (librera reader txt) 📕

for publication in its pages the works of the great Italian poet Tasso. Have you ever drunk from the fountain of this immortal poet’s lines, Mr. Thacker?”

“Not even a demi-Tasso,” said Thacker. “Now, let’s come to the point, Colonel Telfair. I’ve already invested some money in this as a flyer. That bunch of manuscripts cost me $4,000. My object was to try a number of them in the next issue⁠—I believe you make up less than a month ahead⁠—and see what effect it has on the circulation. I believe that by printing the best stuff we can get in the North, South, East, or West we can make the magazine go. You have there the letter from the owning company asking you to cooperate with me in the plan. Let’s chuck out some of this slush that you’ve been publishing just because the writers are related to the Skoopdoodles of Skoopdoodle County. Are you with me?”

“As long as I continue to be the editor of The Rose,” said Colonel Telfair, with dignity, “I shall be its editor. But I desire also to conform to the wishes of its owners if I can do so conscientiously.”

“That’s the talk,” said Thacker, briskly. “Now, how much of this stuff I’ve brought can we get into the January number? We want to begin right away.”

“There is yet space in the January number,” said the editor, “for about eight thousand words, roughly estimated.”

“Great!” said Thacker. “It isn’t much, but it’ll give the readers some change from goobers, governors, and Gettysburg. I’ll leave the selection of the stuff I brought to fill the space to you, as it’s all good. I’ve got to run back to New York, and I’ll be down again in a couple of weeks.”

Colonel Telfair slowly swung his eyeglasses by their broad, black ribbon.

“The space in the January number that I referred to,” said he, measuredly, “has been held open purposely, pending a decision that I have not yet made. A short time ago a contribution was submitted to The Rose of Dixie that is one of the most remarkable literary efforts that has ever come under my observation. None but a master mind and talent could have produced it. It would just fill the space that I have reserved for its possible use.”

Thacker looked anxious.

“What kind of stuff is it?” he asked. “Eight thousand words sounds suspicious. The oldest families must have been collaborating. Is there going to be another secession?”

“The author of the article,” continued the colonel, ignoring Thacker’s allusions, “is a writer of some reputation. He has also distinguished himself in other ways. I do not feel at liberty to reveal to you his name⁠—at least not until I have decided whether or not to accept his contribution.”

“Well,” said Thacker, nervously, “is it a continued story, or an account of the unveiling of the new town pump in Whitmire, South Carolina, or a revised list of General Lee’s body-servants, or what?”

“You are disposed to be facetious,” said Colonel Telfair, calmly. “The article is from the pen of a thinker, a philosopher, a lover of mankind, a student, and a rhetorician of high degree.”

“It must have been written by a syndicate,” said Thacker. “But, honestly, Colonel, you want to go slow. I don’t know of any eight-thousand-word single doses of written matter that are read by anybody these days, except Supreme Court briefs and reports of murder trials. You haven’t by any accident gotten hold of a copy of one of Daniel Webster’s speeches, have you?”

Colonel Telfair swung a little in his chair and looked steadily from under his bushy eyebrows at the magazine promoter.

“Mr. Thacker,” he said, gravely, “I am willing to segregate the somewhat crude expression of your sense of humor from the solicitude that your business investments undoubtedly have conferred upon you. But I must ask you to cease your jibes and derogatory comments upon the South and the Southern people. They, sir, will not be tolerated in the office of The Rose of Dixie for one moment. And before you proceed with more of your covert insinuations that I, the editor of this magazine, am not a competent judge of the merits of the matter submitted to its consideration, I beg that you will first present some evidence or proof that you are my superior in any way, shape, or form relative to the question in hand.”

“Oh, come, Colonel,” said Thacker, good-naturedly. “I didn’t do anything like that to you. It sounds like an indictment by the fourth assistant attorney-general. Let’s get back to business. What’s this 8,000 to 1 shot about?”

“The article,” said Colonel Telfair, acknowledging the apology by a slight bow, “covers a wide area of knowledge. It takes up theories and questions that have puzzled the world for centuries, and disposes of them logically and concisely. One by one it holds up to view the evils of the world, points out the way of eradicating them, and then conscientiously and in detail commends the good. There is hardly a phase of human life that it does not discuss wisely, calmly, and equitably. The great policies of governments, the duties of private citizens, the obligations of home life, law, ethics, morality⁠—all these important subjects are handled with a calm wisdom and confidence that I must confess has captured my admiration.”

“It must be a crackerjack,” said Thacker, impressed.

“It is a great contribution to the world’s wisdom,” said the colonel. “The only doubt remaining in my mind as to the tremendous advantage it would be to us to give it publication in The Rose of Dixie is that I have not yet sufficient information about the author to give his work publicity in our magazine.”

“I thought you said he is a distinguished man,” said Thacker.

“He is,” replied the colonel, “both in literary and in other more diversified and extraneous fields. But I am extremely careful about the matter that I accept for publication. My contributors are people of unquestionable repute and connections, which fact