The Booming of Acre Hill | Page 9

familiar to those who are acquainted with American
letters. For this he not only received the editor's thanks, but a six
months' subscription to the journal in question--the latter of which was
useful, since every night, excluding Sundays, its columns contained
much valuable information on such subjects as "How to Live on Fifty
Dollars a Year," "How to Knit an Afghan with One Needle," and "How
Not to Become a Novelist."
Discouraged by the fate of his essay, Partington endeavored to get a
position on a railway somewhere as a conductor or brakeman; but
failing in this, he returned once more to his writing-table and wrote a
novel. This was the hardest work he had ever attempted. It took him
quite a week to think his story out and put it together; but when he had
it done he was glad he had stuck conscientiously to it, for the results
really seemed good to him. The book was charmingly written, he
thought; so charming, in fact, that he did not think it necessary to have
a type-written copy made of it before sending it out to the publishers.
Possibly this was a mistake. For a time Partington really believed it was
a mistake, because the publisher who saw it first returned it without
comment, prejudiced against it, no doubt, by the fact that it came to
him in the author's autograph. The second publisher was not so rude.
He said he would print it if Partington would advance one thousand
dollars to protect him against loss. The third publisher evidently
thought better of the book, for he only demanded protection to the
amount of seven hundred and fifty dollars, which, of course, Partington
could not pay; and in consequence False but Fair never saw the light of
day as a published book.
"Is it rejected because of its length, its breadth, or what?" he had asked
the last publisher who had turned his back on the book.
"Well, to tell you the truth, Mr. Smithers," the publisher had answered,
"all that our readers had to say about it--and the three who read it
agreed unanimously--was that the book is immature. You do not write
like an adult."

"Thanks," said Partington, as he bowed himself out. "If that's the truth,
I'll try writing for juveniles. I'll sit right down to-night and knock off a
short story about 'Tommy and the Huckleberry-tree.' I don't know
whether huckleberries grow on trees or on huckles, but that will make
the tale all the more interesting. If they don't grow on trees people will
regard the story as romance. If they do grow on trees it will be realism."
True to his promise, that night Partington did write a story, and it was,
as he had said it should be, about "Tommy and the Huckleberry-tree";
and so amusing did it appear to the editor of that eminent juvenile
periodical, Nursery Days, because of what he supposed was the author's
studied ignorance on the subject of huckleberries, that it was accepted
instanter, and the name of Richard Partington Smithers shortly
appeared in all the glory of type.
Partington walked on air for at least a week after his effusion appeared
in print. He had visions night and day in which he seemed to see
himself the centre of the literary circle, and as he promenaded the
avenue in the afternoons he felt almost inclined to stop people who
passed him by to tell them who he was, and thus enable them to feast
their eyes on one whose name would shortly become a household word.
All reasonable young authors feel this way after their first draught at
the soul-satisfying spring of publicity. It is only that preposterous
young person who was born tired who fails to experience the sensations
that were Partington's that week; and at the end of the week, again like
the reasonable young author, he began to realize that immortality could
not be gained by one story treating of a fictitious Tommy and an
imaginary huckleberry-tree, and so he sat himself down at his desk
once more, resolved this time to clinch himself, as it were, in the public
mind, with a tale of "Jimmie and the Strawberry-mine." This story did
not come as easily as the other. In fact, Partington found it impossible
to write more than a third of the second tale that night. He couldn't
bring his mind down to it exactly, probably because his mind had been
soaring so high since the publication of his first effusion. For diversion
as much as for anything else during a lull in his flow of language he
penned a short letter to the editor of Nursery Days, and announced his
intention to send the story of "Jimmie and the Strawberry-mine" to him

shortly--which was