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N unkown young man had come into town from India via San Francisco seeking his fortune. He knew not that it was partly in a bag he carried in his hand and partly in his imagination. He went down to Franklin Square, asked for the editor of "Harper's Magazine" and was shown up the old spiral stairway to that curiously disordered place which was the editorial rooms. He went into the little cubical where Mr. Henry M. Alden sat. The young man explained to the distinguished editor that he was sailing for England two days later; that he had a lot of stuff in his bag and that he would be glad if the editor could find time to look at it in the next day or so. Mr. Alden observed the size of the bundle and smiled upon this swarthy youth from India. There was nothing in his look and manner to distinguish him from the many eager candidates for editorial favor who were constantly coming there in a hurry to put their wares to the test. Mr. Alden was very busy. He would be glad, he said, to have the manuscript examined, but justice to the writer and to themselves demanded that such work should be done with deliberation. At least a week or ten days would be required for the task.

The swarthy young man-a forthright individual-chucked the bundle into his bag, said, “good morning," and Mr. Kipling walked away. The bag contained the "Plain Tales from the Hills," some clipped from obscure Indian newspapers, in which they had first appeared, some in unpublished manuscript. One may almost say that the greatest opportunity that ever knocked at the doors of an American publishing house had passed.

Kipling went to London and fell in with Wolcott Balestier at a boarding-house. The "Plain Tales" began to appear simultaneously in England and America, there being no international copyright laws to protect them here. The Englishspeaking world had seen nothing like them. It was astonished at their rugged strength and vital quality. A new star whose light had dimmed all others had suddenly arisen. One of the tales from an English magazine was reprinted in a Harper periodical. The firm sent a check for two pounds to Mr. Kipling "in acknowledgment" of a sense of obligation. There is ample evidence of his bitter feeling over this, for when he met Hardy and Black and Besant at the latter's house he indignantly told of the "Yankee priva

teer." Later he wrote "The Ballad of the Three Captains" in which one feels that the English language is incapable of expressing a more violent mood.

That was the story which was current in Park Row. A part of it had come from London and a part of it from New York. I think that it is true. In my time the gossip of Park Row with its far-reaching dragnet was apt to be well founded.

23

The remarkable tales of Arthur Conan Doyle had begun their travels. They were even more widely read than Kipling's. They employed a motive unused by men of genius since Poe had set a mark with it. The character and exploits of Sherlock Holmes kept the lights burning late in many a bedchamber and had their part in the talk of every dinnerparty.

One day Ballard Smith, then managing editor of "The World," sent for me. He wished to know if I would go to London at once and try to make a contract with Doyle for a series of tales. The "World" would pay half the cost of them for New York rights. Within a week I was on my way to London with letters of introduction from E. C. Stedman, Gilbert Parker, then a beautiful, clear-eyed young man with a full brown beard, and others.

I wrote to Doyle as soon as I got to London, inclosing the letters of introduction and frankly confessing my purpose. His answer was cordial but firm in tone. He would be glad to meet me but he could make no further engagements to write. I went to luncheon with him at the Reform Club. Doyle was a tall,

brawny, magnificent young physician whose phenomenal success as a writer had driven him out of practice. I have never forgotten his ruddy cheeks or his cheerful good nature. He told me that all his tales went to Sir George Newnes of the "Strand Magazine," who seemed to be glad to pay for them more than Doyle could imagine them to be worth.

"If it's a fair question how much may that be?" I asked. "Fifteen guineas for every thousand words."

"I do not think it enough," I declared. "Authors have been always underpaid. I offer you double that amount for the American serial rights of all your work and will pay you cash on delivery of manuscript and make a contract for two years."

Dr. Doyle put down his fork and looked at me. He saw I meant it.

"This is an astonishing offer," he said. "You must give me a few days in which to think it over."

I went out to his home, in a place called Norwood, if I remember rightly, for luncheon at the end of that week. Dr. Doyle had meanwhile written the first tale of a long series for my syndicate. Its title was "The Lord of Château Noir." It was followed by "The Exploits of the Brigadier Gerard."

I knew not nor did he that our contract was the beginning of a new era for authors. Doubled prices went down the line as they were bound to do. Soon every writer of real popularity was receiving a like. rate for first publication.

One day a pale, slim youth with blue-gray eyes, a rather dark skin and a cast of countenance "comely

and good to look upon," as the ancients were wont to say, came to my office. His head was picturesque and beautiful in its shape and poise. He said that his name was Stephen Crane. I had heard of him. He had come to New York to try to earn a living with his pen and was finding it a difficult thing to do. There were certain editors on Park Row who because of their liking for the boy gave him an assignment now and then. He was not a trained reporter and lacked the "iron-bound nerve" to be expert in that kind of service. But one editor had discovered his great and unusual gift for vivid phrasing. This editor whom I met often at Mouquin's on Fulton Street was the brilliant and now famous Ed Marshall. He had begun to talk of a remarkable young chap of the name of Stephen Crane. Meanwhile the boy was sleeping in artists' studios and going hungry about half the time. I knew nothing of that when he came to my office, but I had acquired some notion of his talents.

He brought with him a bundle of manuscript. He spoke of it modestly. There was in his words no touch of the hopeful enthusiasm with which I presume he had once regarded it. No doubt it had come back to him from the 'satraps" of the great magazines. They had chilled his ardor, if he ever had any, over the immortal thing he had accomplished. This is about what he said:

"Mr. Howells and Hamlin Garland have read this stuff and they think it's good. I wish you'd read it and whether you wish to use the story or not, I'd be glad to have your frank opinion of it."

The manuscript was a bit soiled from much handling. It had not been typed. It was in the clearly legible and rather handsome script of the author. I took it home with me that evening. My wife and I spent more than half the night reading it aloud to each other. We got far along in the story, thrilled by its power and vividness. In the morning I sent for Crane and made an arrangement with him to use about fifty thousand words of his story as a serial. I had no place for a story of that length, but I decided to take the chance of putting it out in instalments far beyond the length of those permitted by my contracts. It was an experiment based on the hope that my judgment would swing my editors into line. They agreed with me.

So it happened that the vital part of "The Red Badge of Courage first went out to the public. Its quality was immediately felt and recognized. Mr. Talcott Williams, the able editor of the "Philadelphia Press," one of the newspapers in which it had appeared, begged me to bring Crane to his office. One afternoon Stephen and I went over to Philadelphia. We presented ourselves at Mr. Williams's sanctum. Word flew from cellar to roof that the great Stephen Crane was in the office. Editors, reporters, compositors, proof-readers crowded around him shaking his hand. It was a revelation of the commanding power of genius. When at last the tower is up and the lamp set and burning how swiftly its light penetrates into all the highways and byways. It has a power like that of radium. Soon Crane's book came out and was

Now there were certain young fellows on Park Row who had some skill in writing. They cherished the hope of winning literary fame. Crane's rise had stimulated their ambition. These were Willis Brooks Hawkins, "a most cheerful companion, a man of playful whims and quaint and delightful fancies"; Charles W. Hooke, a humorist and a successful writer of mystery tales; Post Wheeler, until lately secretary of our Legation in London; Tom Masson, a delightful humorist and for many years the managing editor of "Life"; Edward Marshall, then the most brilliant of the young editors on Park Row, and myself. Often we dined together, generally at Mouquin's. Crane became one of us. We organized The Lantern Club, later to become The Sign o' the Lanthorne, and hired a quaint little house in a part of William Street anciently and still known as Monkey Hill. We approached it by a hanging iron stairway that climbed the side of a brick building occupied by an ironmonger. The roof of the picturesque structure that became our club, and that suggested a small Swiss chalet, covered only one square room. We hired an excellent negro cook and went there every week-day for our luncheon and for dinner every

Saturday evening. They had made me president of this little club.

Using my holidays and a part of each Sunday for the purpose, I had written a short novel entitled, "The Master of Silence." Edmund Clarence Stedman kindly read the manuscript and wrote me a most encouraging letter about it. Largely because of his indorsement the publishers, Charles L. Webster & Co., Mark Twain's firm, put it out in book form after its appearance in the syndicate. It was too much for them. The firm died after six hundred copies of the book had been sold.

It was a great day at our little club when Mark Twain went with me to luncheon there. Hot coals were glowing cheerfully in our fireplace. The room was warm, in cheerful contrast to the snow and ice outside. The boys were all there to greet our distinguished guest. He took a hot Scotch as he warmed himself at the fireside. We sat down to luncheon. He liked the atmosphere of the place. He began to talk. In the right environment and company he loved to talk. He could be kind and agreeable anywhere, but in uncongenial surroundings he could be terribly sad and silent.

Yes, he would have some mince pie. When a thing didn't agree with him he kept at it until one or the other got the best of it. Luncheon over he sat down with a long Cuban cigar before the fireplace, his feet resting on a chair seat. He drank another hot Scotch and began smoking and talking.

While we sat around him, he told us stories of Life on the Mississippi, many of which had appeared in his famous book of that title; but to us

he adorned them with verbal fireworks not to be found in the printed text-the picturesque, fluent and unpremeditated profanity of the old frontier. Turning to me presently he remarked that he made a point of the finish of a tale.

"I try to get a double snapper at the end," he said, "one to produce the effect I seek; the other to prolong it. I have thought of a story and I don't know how to end it. A young man raised in the country goes to New York and engages in business. He has a real talent for business. He succeeds; his rise is rapid; his work absorbing. Busy years pass. He has never found time to return to his native heath or even to get married. His health suffers from the strain of prolonged, unbroken devotion to his tasks. His physician tells him that he must take a rest. Well, he begins to consider how he will practise the difficult art of resting. He thinks of the old beloved countryside and especially of Mary, the girl in whom he was interested as a boy. He had heard that she had never married. He wonders if it is because she was as fond of him as he had been of her. He decides that he will return to the scenes of his youth and try to find Mary. That is what he does. He takes a train and after a long ride of a day and a night he disembarks and drives ten miles into the country to the neighborhood that he knew and loved as a boy. He is made welcome at the home of his cousin John. He learns that Mary is away on a visit. He tramps over the familiar trails; he fishes in the brook that he had fished in his youth; he rides over the lonely, country roads.

One day, riding alone in a top buggy on one of these roads, he comes out of a piece of woods down a hillside, and there opposite the road is the old swimming hole. Well, it's a hot and dusty day. It is a road little traveled. He says to himself: 'Why shouldn't I stop the old horse here and go and take off my clothes and jump into the water and have a refreshing bath just as I used to do when I was a boy?'

"He hitches the horse to the fence; takes off his clothes and jumps into the water and swims around just as he had done in old times. He comes out and dries himself just as he used to do when he was a boy, flicking off the water with his hands. He puts on his undershirt and his overshirt and his collar and necktie, and suddenly he hears a team coming.

"It is near and he hasn't time to dress the lower part of himself. He jumps into the buggy and draws the lap robe over his nakedness, having decided to finish dressing when the team had passed. Suddenly a wagon comes out of the woods and down the hillside, and in the wagon he sees Mary and some friends.

"Hello, Mary,' he shouts, and she calls back, 'Hello Bill.'

"The wagon stops. Mary wonders why Bill does not come over and greet her. In a moment she jumps out and goes to the buggy-side and greets him. She looks good to him. The same bright eyes and wavy brown hair and cheerful manner of old.

"She looks up at him and says, 'Bill, where are you stopping?' "He says, 'Over at my Cousin John's.'

"Well, if you don't mind,' she