“Mr. Edwards to see you,” says the stenographer.

“I’m sorry, sir,” says Edwards, “but I’ve had the offer of another job and I think I shall accept it.  It’s a good thing for a chap to get a chance——­”

My friend slips the key ring back in his pocket.

“What’s this?” he says.  “Nonsense!  When you’ve got a good job, the thing to do is to keep it.  Stick to it, my boy.  There’s a great future for you here.  Don’t get any of those fool ideas about changing around from one thing to another.”

“OWD BOB”

CHAPTER I

(INTRODUCES OUR HERO)

Loitering perchance on the western pavement of Madison avenue, between the streets numbered 38 and 39, and gazing with an observant eye upon the pedestrians passing southward, you would be likely to see, about 8:40 o’clock of the morning, a gentleman of remarkable presence approaching with no bird-like tread.  This creature, clad in a suit of subfuse respectable weave, bearing in his hand a cane of stout timber with a right-angled hornblende grip, and upon his head a hat of rich texture, would probably also carry in one hand (the left) a leather case filled with valuable papers, and in the other hand (the right, which also held the cane) a cigarette, lit upon leaving the Grand Central subway station.  This cigarette the person of our tale would frequentatively apply to his lips, and then withdraw with a quick, swooping motion.  With a rapid, somewhat sidelong gait (at first somehow clumsy, yet upon closer observation a mode of motion seen to embrace certain elements of harmony) this gentleman would converge upon the southwest corner of Madison avenue and 38th street; and the intent observer, noting the menacing contours of the face, would conclude that he was going to work.

[Illustration]

This gentleman, beneath his sober but excellently haberdashered surtout, was plainly a man of large frame, of a Sam Johnsonian mould, but, to the surprise of the calculating observer, it would be noted that his volume (or mass) was not what his bony structure implied.  Spiritually, in deed, this interesting individual conveyed to the world a sensation of stoutness, of bulk and solidity, which (upon scrutiny) was not (or would not be) verified by measurement.  Evidently, you will conclude, a stout man grown thin; or, at any rate, grown less stout.  His molded depth, one might assess at 20 inches between the eaves; his longitude, say, five feet eleven; his registered tonnage, 170; his cargo, literary; and his destination, the editorial sancta of a well-known publishing house.

This gentleman, in brief, is Mr. Robert Cortes Holliday (but not the “stout Cortes” of the poet), the editor of The Bookman.

CHAPTER II

(OUR HERO BEGINS A CAREER)

“It would seem that whenever Nature had a man of letters up her sleeve, the first gift with which she has felt necessary to dower him has been a preacher sire.”