Now Jean Baptiste had less means at hand than he had ever had in his life. Not a dollar did he possess--not even did he have a suit of clothes any more, and wore every day his corduroys. He owed the promoters of the old townsite of Dallas more than he was likely to pay very soon, but they still were his friends. But to get to Dallas, fifty miles away, was still another problem. He went to a bank in the little town where he had other friends from whom he had never asked credit.

They loaned him what he asked for, $5.00. With this he went to Dallas.

The senior member of the firm was in town--that is, senior in age but not in position. Jean Baptiste possessed great personality, and to be near one was to effect that one with it.

"I believe you could do alright with that book, Baptiste," this one said when Baptiste had told him regarding the company who would put it out for him.

"Yes, I am confident I can, too, Graydon," replied Baptiste. "But I am clean, dead broke. I can't go down there."

The other was silent for a moment as he stood wrapped in thought.

Presently he said:

"How much do you have to have to go down there?"

"Oh, thirty-five or forty dollars."

"I'll let you have fifty."

"I'm ready at any minute," so saying, he went to a store across the street where he had friends, and there was dressed from head to foot, charging the clothes to his account. Two days later he walked into the office of the printing firm with which he had been in correspondence.

They were rather surprised when they saw that he was an Ethiopian, but he soon put them at ease.

After several days' of negotiating they finally reached an agreement whereby they would manufacture one thousand copies at seventy-five cents per copy. He was to pay one third of the amount before the book went to press, the balance he was to pay within a reasonable time. An outrageous price, he knew--at least felt. But he was to have all subsequent editions for one half the amount of the original edition, which was some consolation to look forward to.

Another fence: who would furnish that two hundred and fifty dollars and secure him for the remainder? Besides, what would he do with the books when he had them? Publishing meant distribution. But what did he know of such? He thought these things over carefully and finally decided that he would sell them himself. He communicated this fact to the firm. It was rather unusual for an author, perhaps, to sell his own works. Jean Baptiste had never sold anything by solicitation since he had grown up, but when he was young he had been a great peddler of garden vegetables.

He would sell his book, and he seemed to convince them that he could.

They prepared some prospectuses for him, and back home he returned. He told, in answer to the volumes of inquiries that everything was all right, and that the book would appear soon. He said nothing, however, to the friends he had in view to put up the money and that necessary security. He believed in proving a thing, and all else would necessarily follow. He would go out and secure orders there at home among his friends and acquaintances. But the day he planned to start was very cold--the mercury stood twenty-seven below zero.

Starting in Dallas he received orders for one hundred forty-two copies the first day. Very good for a starter. He went to Winner the next day.

Despite the fact that the drought had done no good to the people of that community and town, they all were acquainted with and admired Jean Baptiste. Besides, they would not see Dallas beat them. And one hundred fifty-three copies were ordered by them.

Jean Baptiste could prove anything in a fair fight if given a chance. He secured orders for fifteen hundred copies of his book in two weeks. The promoters went his security and put up the cash into the bargain, and he went back to the publishing house victorious.

The printers had evidenced their confidence in him, for they had been so impressed with his personality that they had begun work upon the copy when he returned. In thirty days it was ready, and in sixty days from the time he was penniless, he had deposited twenty-five hundred dollars to the credit of the book in the banks.

As he was winding up his business preparatory to interviewing his printers, establishing an office and going into the book business for a livelihood, he was the recipient of a telegram from Washington advising that the Honorable Secretary of the Interior had reversed the commissioner's decision, which had been adverse to his wife, with regard to the claim. He had won, but as to how he would ever prove up he didn't know, nor did he let it worry him. He was too flushed with success in his new field. He could still hold the claim, but it would be his wife who must offer proof on the same, and his wife he had not heard from for over a year.

He did not find his new field of endeavor so profitable when he began to work among strangers. Indeed, while he did business the money didn't seem to come in as it should. He conceived an idea of securing agents among the colored people, and in that way effect a good sale. To begin with, this was difficult, for the reason the black man's environment has not been conducive to the art of selling anything except those things that require little or no wide knowledge. They deal largely in hair goods to make their curls grow or hang straighter,--or in complexion creams to clarify and whiten the skin. Yet he succeeded in getting many to take the agency and these received orders and sent for the books. He had learned that it was a custom with subscription book companies to allow agents to have the books and give them thirty days in which to remit the money. This proved agreeable to his agents. However, the greater number of them took not only thirty days--but life, and did not send in the money when they died.

He was confronted then with the task of learning how he could get the books to them and be assured of his money. To learn this, he went on the road himself appointing agents and selling to bookstores. And it was upon this journey that he met one who had played a little part in his life some years before, at a time when conditions had been entirely different with him.

In Kansas City she occurred to him. He recalled that it was only twelve miles from the city where her father owned and lived upon one of the greatest farms in the country. He thought of the last letter he had received from her, the letter that had come too late. And then he thought of what had passed since. Girls in her circumstances would not be likely to waste their sympathies with grasswidowers; but he wished that he might see her and look just once into the eyes that might have been his. But his courage failed him. He still had spirit and pride, so he gave it up for the time.

Late in the afternoon of that day, he was engaged with some acquaintances in the bar-room of a club. They became quite jolly as cocktails and red liquor flowed and tingled their veins. He thought again of Irene Grey, and the memory was exhilarating. And the cocktails gave him the necessary courage. He was bold at last and to the telephone he went and called her over long distance.

"Is this the Greys home?" he called.

"Yes," came back the answer, and he was thrilled at the mellowness of the voice at the other end.

"Is Miss Irene at home?" he called now.

"Yes," it said. "This is she."

He was sobered. All the effect of the cocktails went out of him on the instant. He choked blindly, groped for words, and finally said:

"Why--er--ah--this is a friend of yours. An old friend. Mayhap you have forgotten me."

"I don't know," she called back. "Who are you?"

He still didn't have the courage to tell her, but sought to make himself known by explaining. He then mentioned the state from whence he came, but no further did he get. It so happened that she had heard all about his troubles following his marriage, and, womanlike, feeling that she had been in a way displaced by the other, she had always been anxious to meet and know him.

"Oh," she cried, and the echo of her voice rang in his ears over the wire for some moments. "Is this you?" she cried now, her voice evidencing the excitement she was laboring under.

"Yes," he admitted somewhat awkwardly, not knowing whether the fact had thrilled and joyed her, or, whether he was in for a rebuke for calling her up. But he was speedily reassured.

"Then why don't you come on out here?" she cried.

"I--I didn't know whether I would be welcome," he replied, happy in a new way.

"Oh, pshaw! Why _wouldn't_ you be welcome? But now," her tone changed.

"Where are you?"

"In Kansas City."

"Let me see," she said, and he knew she was thinking. "It is now four thirty, and a train leaves there that passes through here in forty minutes. It doesn't stop here; but you catch it and go to the station above here, do you understand?"

"Yes, yes," he replied eagerly.

"Well, now, listen! The station I refer to is only four miles above this, and when you get off there, catch another train that comes in a few minutes back this way, see?"

"Yes, yes."

"Well, that train stops at this station, and there I will meet you."

"Oh, fine," he cried. "I'll be there."

"Now you will be sure to catch it," she cautioned.

"Most assuredly!"

"I will depend on it."

"Count me there!"

"I want to talk to you, I'm going to talk all night."

"Good-by."