But about Sole Surviving. There was a London publisher named John Camden
Hotten. Among American writers he had a pretty dark reputation as a
"pirate." They accused him of republishing their books without their
assent, which, in absence of international copyright, he had a legal, and
it seems to me (a "sufferer") a moral right to do. Through sympathy with
their foreign confreres British writers also held him in high disesteem.

I knew Hotten very well, and one day I stood by what purported to be his
body, which afterward I assisted to bury in the cemetery at Highgate. I am
sure that it was his body, for I was uncommonly careful in the matter of
identification, for a very good reason, which you shall know.

Aside from his "piracy," Hotten had a wide renown as "a hard man to deal
with." For several months before his death he had owed me one hundred
pounds sterling, and he could not possibly have been more reluctant to
part with anything but a larger sum. Even to this day in reviewing the
intelligent methods--ranging from delicate finesse to frank effrontery--by
which that good man kept me out of mine own I am prostrated with
admiration and consumed with envy. Finally by a lucky chance I got him at
a disadvantage and seeing my power he sent his manager--a fellow named
Chatto, who as a member of the firm of Chatto & Windus afterward succeeded
to his business and methods--to negotiate. I was the most implacable
creditor in the United Kingdom, and after two mortal hours of me in my
most acidulated mood Chatto pulled out a check for the full amount, ready
signed by Hotten in anticipation of defeat. Before handing it to me Chatto
said: "This check is dated next Saturday. Of course you will not present
it until then."

To this I cheerfully consented.

"And now," said Chatto, rising to go, "as everything is satisfactory I
hope you will go out to Hotten's house and have a friendly talk. It is his
wish."

On Saturday morning I went. In pursuance, doubtless, of his design when he
antedated that check he had died of a pork pie promptly on the stroke of
twelve o'clock the night before--which invalidated the check! I have met
American publishers who thought they knew something about the business of
drinking champagne out of writers' skulls. If this narrative--which, upon
my soul, is every word true--teaches them humility by showing that genuine
commercial sagacity is not bounded by geographical lines it will have
served its purpos