ctor in the Scribner corporation, and Owen W. Brewer, at present a
prominent figure in Chicago's book world. It was a happy group, all
closely banded together in their business interests and in their human
relations as well.

With Scribner's Magazine now in the periodical field, Bok would be
asked on his trips to the publishing houses to have an eye open for
advertisements for that periodical as well. Hence his education in the
solicitation of advertisements became general, and gave him a
sympathetic understanding of the problems of the advertising solicitor
which was to stand him in good stead when, in his later experience, he
was called upon to view the business problems of a magazine from the
editor's position. His knowledge of the manufacture of the two
magazines in his charge was likewise educative, as was the fascinating
study of typography which always had, and has today, a wonderful
attraction for him.

It was, however, in connection with the advertising of the general
books of the house, and in his relations with their authors, that Bok
found his greatest interest. It was for him to find the best manner in
which to introduce to the public the books issued by the house, and the
general study of the psychology of publicity which this called for
attracted Bok greatly.

Although the Scribners did not publish Mark Twain's books, the humorist
was a frequent visitor to the retail store, and occasionally he would
wander back to the publishing department located at the rear of the
store, which was then at 743 Broadway.

Smoking was not permitted in the Scribner offices, and, of course, Mark
Twain was always smoking. He generally smoked a granulated tobacco
which he kept in a long check bag made of silk and rubber. When he
sauntered to the back of the Scribner store, he would generally knock
the residue from the bowl of the pipe, take out the stem, place it in
his vest pocket, like a pencil, and drop the bowl into the bag
containing the granulated tobacco. When he wanted to smoke again
(which was usually five minutes later) he would fish out the bowl, now
automatically filled with tobacco, insert the stem, and strike a light.
One afternoon as he wandered into Bok's office, he was just putting his
pipe away. The pipe, of the corncob variety, was very aged and black.
Bok asked him whether it was the only pipe he had.

"Oh, no," Mark answered, "I have several. But they're all like this.
I never smoke a new co