“All right,” said Thacker. “I read the poem, but I couldn’t tell whether it was about the depot or the battle of Bull Run. Now, here’s a short story called ‘Rosie’s Temptation,’ by Fosdyke Piggott. It’s rotten. What is a Piggott, anyway?”

“Mr. Piggott,” said the editor, “is a brother of the principal stockholder of the magazine.”

“All’s right with the world—Piggot passes,” said Thacker. “Well, this article on Arctic exploration and the one on tarpon fishing might go. But how about this write-up of the Atlanta, New Orleans, Nashville, and Savannah breweries? It seems to consist mainly of statistics about their output and the quality of their beer. What’s the chip over the bug?”

“If I understand your figurative language,” answered Colonel Telfair, “it is this: the article you refer to was handed to me by the owners of the magazine with instructions to publish it. The literary quality of it did not appeal to me. But, in a measure, I feel impelled to conform, in certain matters, to the wishes of the gentlemen who are interested in the financial side of The Rose.”

“I see,” said Thacker. “Next we have two pages of selections from ‘Lalla Rookh,’ by Thomas Moore. Now, what Federal prison did Moore escape from, or what’s the name of the F.F.V. family that he carries as a handicap?”

“Moore was an Irish poet who died in 1852,” said Colonel Telfair pityingly. “He is a classic. I have been thinking of reprinting his translation of Anacreon serially in the magazine.”

“Look out for the copyright laws,” said Thacker flippantly. “Who’s Bessie Belleclair, who contributes the essay on the newly completed water works plant in Milledgeville?”

“The name, sir,” said Colonel Telfair, “is the nom de guerre of Miss Elvira Simpkins. I have not the honour of knowing the lady; but her contribution was sent us by Congressman Brower, of her native state. Congressman Brower’s mother was related to the Polks of Tennessee.”

“Now, see here, Colonel,” said Thacker, throwing down the magazine, “this won’t do. You can’t successfully run a magazine for one particular section of the country. You’ve got to make a universal appeal. Look how the Northern publications have catered to the South and encouraged the Southern writers. And you’ve got to go far and wide for your contributors. You’ve got to buy stuff according to its quality, without any regard to the pedigree of the author. Now, I’ll bet a quart of ink that this Southern parlour organ you’ve been running has never played a note that originated above Mason & Hamlin’s line. Am I right?”

“I have carefully and conscientiously rejected all contributions from that section of the country—if I understand your figurative language aright,” replied the colonel.

“All right. Now I’ll show you something!”

Thacker reached for his thick manila envelope and dumped a mass of typewritten manuscript on the editor’s desk.

“Here’s some truck,” said he, “that I paid cash for and brought along with me.”

One by one he folded back the manuscripts and showed their first pages to the colonel.

“Here are four short stories by four of he highest priced authors in the United States—three of ’em living in New York, and one commuting. There’s a special article on Vienna-bred society by Tom Vampson. Here’s an Italian serial by Captain Jack—no—it’s the other Crawford. Here are three separate exposés of city governments by Sniffings, and here’s a dandy entitled ‘What Women Carry in Dress-Suit Cases’—a Chicago newspaper woman hired herself out for five years as a lady’s maid to get that information. And here’s a Synopsis of Preceding Chapters of Hall Caine’s new serial to appear next June. And here’s a couple of pounds of vers de société that I got at a rate from the clever magazines. That’s the stuff that