two red boxes with a slit in the lids, which belonged to one of the
defunct companies. "Don't be over-sanguine as to the price. These
publishers never venture much on a first experiment. They must be
talked even into looking at the book."

"Oh!" said my father, "if they will publish it at all, and at their own
risk, I should not stand out for any other terms. 'Nothing great,' said
Dryden, 'ever came from a venal pen!'"

"An uncommonly foolish observation of Dryden's," returned Uncle Jack;
"he ought to have known better."

"So he did," said I, "for he used his pen to fill his pockets, poor
man!"

"But the pen was not venal, Master Anachronism," said my father. "A
baker is not to be called venal if he sells his loaves, he is venal if
he sells himself; Dryden only sold his loaves."

"And we must sell yours," said Uncle Jack, emphatically. "A thousand
pounds a volume will be about the mark, eh?"

"A thousand pounds a volume!" cried my father. "Gibbon, I fancy, did
not receive more."

"Very likely; Gibbon had not an Uncle Jack to look after his interests,"
said Mr. Tibbets, laughing, and rubbing those smooth hands of his. "No!
two thousand pounds the two volumes,--a sacrifice, but still I recommend
moderation."