re me, only
now I had more heart in me, and, having wrestled once with Fate and
prevailed, stood less in fear of her.

Sometimes with a letter of introduction, sometimes without, sometimes
with a bold face, sometimes with a timid step, I visited nearly every
publisher in London. A few received me kindly, others curtly, many not
at all. From most of them I gathered that the making of books was a
pernicious and unprofitable occupation. Some thought the work would
prove highly successful if I paid the expense of publication, but were
less impressed with its merits on my explaining to them my financial
position. All kept me waiting long before seeing me, but made haste to
say 'Good day' to me.

I suppose all young authors have had to go through the same course. I
sat one evening, a few months ago, with a literary friend of mine. The
talk turned upon early struggles, and, with a laugh, he said: 'Do you
know one of the foolish things I love to do? I like to go with a paper
parcel under my arm into some big publishing house, and to ask, in a
low, nervous voice, if Mr. So-and-so is disengaged. The clerk, with a
contemptuous glance towards me, says that he is not sure, and asks if I
have an appointment. "No," I reply; "not--not exactly, but I think he
will see me. It's a matter of importance. I shall not detain him a
minute."

'The clerk goes on with his writing, and I stand waiting. At the end of
about five minutes, he, without looking up, says curtly, "What name?"
and I hand him my card.

'Up to that point, I have imagined myself a young man again, but there
the fancy is dispelled. The man glances at the card, and then takes a
sharp look at me. "I beg your pardon, sir," he says, "will you take a
seat in here for a moment?" In a few seconds he flies back again with
"Will you kindly step this way, sir?" As I follow him upstairs I catch a
glimpse of somebody being hurriedly bustled out of the private office,
and the great man himself comes to the door, smiling, and as I take his
outstretched hand I am remembering other times that he has forgotten.

[Illustration: I AM REMEMBERING]

In the end--to make a long story short, as the saying is--Mr. Tuer, of
'Ye Leadenhall Press,' urged thereto by a mutual friend, read the book,
and, I presume, found merit in it, for he offered to publish it if I
would make him a free gift of the copyright. I thought the terms hard at
the time (though in my eagerness to see my name upon the cover