"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--"
"No, I'll be dogged if I could!" Fulkerson lapsed more and more into the
parlance of his early life in this season of strong excitement.
Pages:
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577