One by one he folded back the manuscripts and showed their first pages
to the colonel.

Here are four short stories by four of the highest priced authors in
the United States--three of 'em living in New York, and one commuting.
There's a special article on Vienna-bred society by Tom Vampson.
Here's an Italian serial by Captain Jack--no--it's the other Crawford.
Here are three separate exposés of city governments by Sniffings, and
here's a dandy entitled 'What Women Carry in Dress-Suit Cases'--a
Chicago newspaper woman hired herself out for five years as a lady's
maid to get that information. And here's a Synopsis of Preceding
Chapters of Hall Caine's new serial to appear next June. And here's a
couple of pounds of _vers de société_ that I got at a rate from the
clever magazines. That's the stuff that people everywhere want. And
now here's a write-up with photographs at the ages of four, twelve,
twenty-two, and thirty of George B. McClellan. It's a prognostication.
He's bound to be elected Mayor of New York. It'll make a big hit all
over the country. He--"

"I beg your pardon," said Colonel Telfair, stiffening in his chair.
"What was the name?"

"Oh, I see," said Thacker, with half a grin. Yes, he's a son of the
General. We'll pass that manuscript up. But, if you'll excuse me,
Colonel, it's a magazine we're trying to make go off--not the first
gun at Fort Sumter. Now, here's a thing that's bound to get next to
you. It's an original poem by James Whitcomb Riley. J. W. himself.
You know what that means to a magazine. I won't tell you what I had
to pay for that poem; but I'll tell you this--Riley can make more
money writing with a fountain-pen than you or I can with one that lets