Neal stood there perfectly silent. He had grown very white, and his eyes looked dangerously dark.

"Oh, those children!" he said at last, between firmly set teeth. "You had better keep them out of my way for a time, Edith. I'd just like to murder them, the way I feel now."

"Oh, Neal, I am so sorry! I can't tell you how dreadfully I feel. But we oughtn't to have both gone. You see, I didn't know you were coming too."

"And I didn't know I was expected to act as child's nurse," said Neal, angrily. "The dog is done for, as far as shows are concerned. His coat will never be the same again; it ruins it to cut it." He stopped abruptly. "I guess I had better get out of the way," he said, presently.

"I can't answer for my temper. Come, Bob."

And he walked down across the gra.s.s and went off into the woods.

Edith, left alone, began to cry. She would not have had this happen for the world. Again she said to herself, why had the Gordons ever come there to disturb their peace of mind in so many ways? And where were the children? They should be severely punished.

She looked for them all over the house, but of course they were not to be found. After a long time she saw them coming slowly homeward. They were wet and bedraggled, for the stones had been as obdurate as Bob and refused to move. w.i.l.l.y had tumbled into the brook, and Janet had followed, in a vain attempt to help him out.

And now they were met by an irate sister, who, seizing them roughly, dragged them upstairs.

"You shall go straight to bed and stay there! You have ruined Neal's dog, and he'll never get over it. You are bad, naughty children!"

"I think you're silly, Edith!" screamed Janet. "We didn't hurt him, and we only cooled him off. You're mean to make us go to bed in the middle of the day, an' you'd orter not drag us this way. Mamma wouldn't."

"I don't care what your mamma would do; it's what I do."

Edith did not realize that a few words spoken calmly but sternly to Janet and w.i.l.l.y would have more lasting effect than this summary mode of punishment. The truth was she was too angry to trust her tongue at all, and this reference to Mrs. Franklin annoyed her. Everything seemed against her, and the hot weather made things worse.

She ate her dinner in solitude, and then, when the afternoon had worn on for an hour or two, she at last saw Neal coming across the fields.

Edith went to meet him.

"You want something to eat," she said. "Come in and I'll find you something. Neal, I am so sorry."

"Oh, don't say anything. What's done can't be undone. Lend me your shears after dinner and I'll finish things up with a flourish. I can get him into better shape than he is. He looks like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde just now. I'm as hungry as a hunter, so I don't mind accepting your offer of a bite."

Edith went off to find something, and as she prepared a dainty meal for the boy, she thought to herself that he set her a good example. She knew what pride he had taken in Bob's appearance, and she knew how angry he had been at first. It must have been a hard battle for him.

And it was. Edith was far from realizing what a temper Neal had. He had felt that morning that his only safety lay in flight, and he had tramped many miles through the woods in the endeavor to overcome his anger.

After luncheon he took the scissors and set to work upon Bob's other side. He could not repress a groan of dismay once or twice.

"If they had only done it decently!" he said. "In some places it looks as if it had been torn out by the roots, they've cropped it so close, and here again are these long pieces. Well, well, Bobby, my boy, I fancy we were too vain of our appearance. Here goes!"

In a short time Bob had the appearance of a closely shaven French poodle.

Edith watched the process for a few minutes, but presently went to her room.

"I shall be held accountable for this too, I suppose," she said to herself. "Oh, _why_ did those Gordons ever come?"

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

BUILDING OF MODERN WONDERS.

THE BOOK.

BY KIRK MUNROE.

Although we are apt to speak of the "writing" or the "making" of a book, rather than of its "building," each of these is a distinct operation: and when a book, first written, then made, is finally ready for the reader, it has been built as truly as a house or a ship is built. It has demanded an equal amount of careful planning, skilled labor, and close attention to the thousand details that go to the making of a completed whole. In reading an interesting book how very little we think of this, or realize the amount of time and hard work expended in thus giving us a few hours of pleasure. Most people consider writing to be a very easy method of making a living, and nothing is more common in an author's experience than to have his friends express surprise when he speaks of going to his work.

"Work!" they exclaim. "Surely you do not call it work to occupy a pleasant room at home, and write for hours each day? That's more like play than work. If you want to know what real work is, come with us and see what we have to do."

So every one, except those who know, imagines book-writing to be so easy that most of those who desire to earn a livelihood without very hard work try their hands at it. The girl of brains and education thrown upon her own resources decides to become an author; and, after a desperate struggle, fails because she has no real experiences to draw from. The sea-captain who is too old to follow his chosen profession, but must still make a living, and is brimful of experience and adventures, decides to become an author. When he too meets with failure he blames everybody and everything except himself, and rarely discovers that the reason he cannot become a successful author at his time of life is because he has not been trained to the business, and does not know how to write.

Authorship, or book-writing, is a trade that must be learned the same as any other, and I believe that any boy or girl of average intelligence may be trained to successful authorship if only he or she is willing to work hard enough and long enough at the trade. Even imagination can be cultivated. Of course the literary apprentice must know how to apply the rules of grammar, must practise clearness and conciseness of style, must know how to use books of reference, must have what is known as a liberal education, and, above all, must be possessed of a genuine liking for his chosen calling. After leaving his school or college he should spend at least two years--and four would be better--as a reporter, a private secretary, an amanuensis to some skilled writer, or as a.s.sistant editor of some first-cla.s.s publication that insists upon the use of grammatical English in its columns. During this apprenticeship he may try his hand at sketches, essays, or short stories, and must learn to accept calmly a dozen disappointments with each success.

When the author is ready to write a book his most difficult task is to select a subject that shall be interesting, timely, and not already overdone. It must be one that he can write about from his own experience, or from the experience of others. The latter may be gained from books or from the verbal accounts of those who have been through with what he desires to describe; but a book compiled from other books is apt to be dull and lifeless, while one dealing with a personal experience is almost certain to be interesting. "Mark Twain's" best books are those based upon his own life on the Mississippi, in Western mining camps, or while travelling abroad. The great charm of Miss Alcott's stories lay in the fact that she wrote of her every-day surroundings. The absorbing interest of Captain King's _Cadet Days_ is due to the author's absolute knowledge, from personal experience, of the joys and sorrows, the trials and triumphs, of West Point life. Thus to be a successful writer of books one must have something to say, and must know how to say it. To these qualifications must be added tireless industry, boundless patience, and a determination to succeed in spite of all obstacles.

Let us suppose that our author decides to write a book for boys, and to make it a mining-story. But he has never been down in a mine, nor even seen one. He knows nothing about mines from personal experience. Under these circ.u.mstances it is clearly his duty to visit the nearest mining region, and remain there long enough to become familiar with its life, its scenery, and its incidents, before he attempts to describe them.

From such a trip he returns to his workshop with a thorough knowledge of what he desires to write about. Before beginning the actual work of writing he must plan his book, decide how many chapters it is to contain, and what shall be their length; lay out, either on paper or in his mind, the general scheme of his story; select a name for his hero, and, if possible, decide upon a t.i.tle; for it is better to fit a story to a t.i.tle than to fit a t.i.tle to a story.

In these preliminaries the author has invested a month or more of time, and has expended a certain amount of money. In other words, he has paid for the stock of goods upon which he hopes to realize a profit. Now he is ready to enter upon the building of his book.

As writing is among the most tiresome and exhausting forms of labor, it should never be allowed to occupy more than eight hours of each day, and the best results are reached in four or five hours, followed by a change of employment, recreation, out-of-door exercise, or complete rest for the remainder of the day. Every book should be written twice, the first draft being made on soft unglazed paper with a No. 2 pencil, while the second is a revised and punctuated copy, written in ink or type-written on sheets of a medium size. The neatness of a ma.n.u.script has much to do with its favorable reception at the hands of an editor or a publisher's reader. Some authors do not write at all, but dictate to a stenographer or an amanuensis; but this requires extra practice, and is generally so expensive a method that it can only be adopted by those who have an a.s.sured market for their work, or are not obliged to earn a livelihood.

At length our book is written; a fair copy of the original rough draft has been made, and provided with chapter headings, t.i.tle page, and table of contents. The precious ma.n.u.script is put into a box the exact size of its sheets, sent off to a publisher, and, with his occupation gone, the anxious author waits days, weeks, and sometimes months, for news of his venture.

Very few publishers have either the time or inclination for a personal reading of books in ma.n.u.script, and for this work they employ skilled readers upon whose judgment they can rely. Some houses thus retain as many as six such readers, and very often a ma.n.u.script book must pa.s.s through the hands of all these, taking its turn with scores of others, before a decision is reached concerning it. Each reader hands in a written opinion as to its merits and demerits, its chances of success or failure. Sometimes, if these opinions are conflicting, the publisher hands them all, together with the book in question, to a seventh reader--a sort of a court of final appeal--and requests him to write an opinion on the opinions. Even if all the opinions are favorable, the publisher may still refuse to bring out the work in question. There are a hundred good reasons for declining to publish a book, and the ma.n.u.script must run the gauntlet of them all. It may be too long or too short, or too similar to something else already in hand. Its princ.i.p.al characters may be too young or too old. It may not be in a certain publisher's peculiar line, or it may contain sentiments of which he does not approve. He may already have accepted as many books as he cares to issue in that year. This one may be interesting but badly written, or it may be beautifully expressed and as dull as dishwater. Thus an endless list of "mays," "ifs," and "buts" present themselves, by any one of which the fate of the book may be influenced. The one question to which they all lead is: "Will it pay? If so, we will publish it; if not, we won't."

Of course publishers and publishers' readers sometimes make mistakes concerning the value of a book, and decline one that, in the hands of another publisher, or brought out at the author's expense, achieves a tremendous success. In fact, there is hardly a popular book about which some tale of this kind is not told.

Our book having escaped the many perils that beset it, and been accepted, the publisher makes the author one of three offers for it. He will buy it outright, publish it subject to royalty, or on shares. If he buys it and its copyright outright, he gives an unknown author for his first book from $100 to $400, rarely more; while offers to well-known and successful authors often run up into the thousands of dollars.

If the agreement is to publish on the royalty plan, the offer to an unknown author will be that of a ten-per-cent. royalty on the retail price of his book after one thousand copies shall have been sold. It costs from $300 to $500 to publish one thousand copies of the ordinary one-dollar book. One hundred or more of these are given to editors or critics for the sake of the advertising contained in such notices as they may write about the book. The remainder are sold in the trade at a 40-per-cent. discount from the retail price. The disposal in this manner of 1000 copies of a book not only pays the cost of its publication, but generally yields a small profit to the publisher.

By getting a one-dollar book for sixty cents, or "forty off," as they say in the trade, the dry-goods stores, who now sell a great many books, and the regular retail booksellers, are able to offer it at 65 or 70 or 75 cents, and still make a profit on it; while at the same time the publisher is obliged, by his agreement with the trade, to charge the full list price for every copy of a book that he sells at retail. For this reason it is generally cheaper to buy a book from a dealer than from the publisher.

If a book is successful enough to run into a second edition or reach its second thousand, which very few first books ever do, then the author begins to receive ten cents for every copy sold. If, however, it fails to pa.s.s its first thousand, he receives nothing for his labor, except the advertising of his name gained by the publication of a book. A well-known and popular author whose work is certain to sell, bringing out a book on the royalty plan, receives from 10 to 15 per cent. on every copy sold from the very first.

The copyright life of a book, or the time during which it will pay its author a royalty, is fourteen years, and may be extended, by application, fourteen years longer.

If the publisher and author agree to bring out a book "on shares," it means that they shall share equally all expenses and profits. In any case a long and formidable contract, is drawn up, which both parties must sign before the book can be "put in hand," or enter upon the second stage of its building.

After a publisher has arranged to bring out a book, the questions for him to decide concerning it are: At what time of year shall it appear?

Whether or not it shall be ill.u.s.trated? What shall be its size, its style of type, the weight of its paper, and the form of its binding? How many copies shall be printed? How much money shall be expended in advertising it? etc., etc. Occasionally the author is consulted concerning some of these questions, especially in regard to ill.u.s.trations, for which he is sometimes requested to furnish photographs; but more often he is not. The publisher, who bears the expense of ill.u.s.trating the book, generally reserves the right to select the artist for this work as well as to decide upon the number, the style, and the size of the pictures.

There is so much art in the making of a book that by the aid of large type, wide s.p.a.ces between lines, heavy paper, and broad margins a small ma.n.u.script may suffice for a large volume; while by the use of small type set "solid," thin paper, and narrow margins an immense amount of matter may be compressed into very small compa.s.s. As a rule the large or medium-sized volumes, especially among those known to the trade as "Juveniles," sell best, for there are many people who in the purchase of books follow the plan of the Chinaman in buying shoes, and select the largest size to be had for the money.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SETTING UP THE BOOK.]