"I'll hire a lot of fellows to make mud-turtles of themselves, and I'll
have a lot of big facsimiles of the title-page, and I'll paint the town
red!"

March looked aghast at him. "Oh, come, now, Fulkerson!"

"I mean it. I was in London when a new man had taken hold of the old
Cornhill, and they were trying to boom it, and they had a procession of
these mudturtles that reached from Charing Cross to Temple Bar. Cornhill
Magazine. Sixpence. Not a dull page in it.' I said to myself then that
it was the livest thing I ever saw. I respected the man that did that
thing from the bottom of my heart. I wonder I ever forgot it. But it
shows what a shaky thing the human mind is at its best."

"You infamous mountebank!", said March, with great amusement at
Fulkerson's access; "you call that congeries of advertising instinct of
yours the human mind at its best? Come, don't be so diffident,
Fulkerson. Well, I'm off to find Lindau, and when I come back I hope Mr.
Dryfoos will have you under control. I don't suppose you'll be quite
sane again till after the first number is out. Perhaps public opinion
will sober you then."

"Confound it, March! How do you think they will take it? I swear I'm
getting so nervous I don't know half the time which end of me is up.
I believe if we don't get that thing out by the first of February it 'll
be the death of me."

"Couldn't wait till Washington's Birthday? I was thinking it would give
the day a kind of distinction, and strike the public imagination, if--"