A Hazard of New Fortunes, Part First

toward March on its hind-legs, and came and rapped upon his table with his thin bamboo stick. "What you want to do is to get out of the insurance business, anyway. You acknowledge that yourself.

ary, and if the thing succeeds you'll share in its success. We'll all share in its success. That's the beauty of it. I tell you, March, t

gave himself a sharp cut on the thigh, and leaned forwa

and mucilage-bottle out of Fulkerson's way. After many years' experiment of a mustache and whiskers, he now wore

n of man nowadays. Why stop at that? Why not

t the creation of man. I'm satisfied with that. But if you want to ring

ce, you know that; and I haven't seriously attempted to do anything in literature since I was married. I g

e if you never write a line for the thing, though you needn't reject anything of yours, if it happens to be good, on that account. And I don't

nything else that I got into the insurance business. I suppose I secretly hoped that if I made my l

ve always had a hankering for the inkpots; and the fact that you first gave me the

s-l

fair, and I've found out in the syndicate business all the men that are worth having. But they know me, and they don't know you, and that's where we shall have the pull on them. They won't be able to work the thing. Don't you be anxious about the experience. I've got experience enough of my own to run a dozen editors. What I want is an editor who has taste, and you've go

ourselves a little too objectively and to feel ourselves

ghted. "You've hit

kerson, and I've felt the same thing myself; it warmed me toward you when we first met. I can't help suffusing a little to any man when I

on the Quebec boat, I said to myself: 'There's a man I want to know. There's a human being.' I was a little afraid of Mrs. March and the children, but I felt at home with you-thoroughly domesticated-before I passed a word with you; and when you spoke first, and opened up with a joke over that fellow's tableful of light literature and Indian moccasins and birch-bark toy canoes

ggested, with a smile. "You might call the thing 'From

e Syndicate'; but it sounds kind of dry, and doesn't seem to cover the ground exactly. I should like s

ll it 'Th

we could get something like that, it would pique curiosity; and then if we could get paragraphs afloat

hare the profits and be exempt from the losses. Or, if I'm wrong, and the reverse is true, you might call it 'The Army of Martyrs'. Come, that sounds attractive, Fulkerson! Or what do you think of 'The Fif

get the editor. I see the poison's beginning to work in you, March; and if I had time I'd leave the result to time. But I haven't. I've got t

dgment, and March said, "Well, th

hing inchoately in my mind then, when I was telling you about the newspaper syndicate business-beautiful

would be attractive," March interrupted.

oom. It was growing late; the October sun had left the top of the tall windows; it was still clear day, but it would soon be twilight; they had been talking a long time.

f reserve, "At present about three thousand." He looked up at Fulkerson with a glance, as

not, he said: "Well, I'll give you thirty-five

don't believe thirty-five hundred would go any f

live on three

has a littl

r for your house here. You can get plenty of flats in New York for the same money; and I understand y

n had dropped in upon March to air the scheme and to get his impressions of it. This had happened so often that it had come to be a sort

very much more, but I don't want to go to New

samer," Fulke

ry natural she shouldn't. She has always lived in Boston; she's attached t

't do. You might as well say St. Louis or Cincinnati. There's onl

ongs to the Bostonians, but they like you to

id Fulkerson. "You think it over now, March. You talk it over with Mrs. March; I know you will, anyway; and I might as well make

late that the last of the chore-women who washed down the marble halls and stairs of the great building had wrung ou

got my eye on a little house round in West Eleventh Street that I'm going to fit up for my bachelor's hall in the third story, and adapt for 'The Lone

alubrity with you yet," March sighed, in an

r a fair, unprejudiced chance at the thing on its merits, and I'm very much mist

March absently lifted his eyes to it. It was suddenly strange after so many years' familiarity, and so was the well-known street in its Saturday-evening solitude. He asked himself, with pr

des Deux Mondes' is still published twice a month. I g

have illus

sort of lunatic who would start a thing in the twilight o

g about art." March's look of discouragement c

son retorted. "Don't you supp

educed rate, too, like the writers, wi

ard, I'll pay him big money besides. But I can get plenty of fi

for Fulkerson during the week they were together in Quebec. When he was not working the newspapers there, he went about with them over the familiar ground they were showing their children, and was simply grateful for the chance, as well as very entertaining about it all. The children liked him, too; when they got the clew to his intention, and found that he was not quite serious in many of the things he said, they thought he was great fun. They were

and about it. I know my ground, every inch; and I don't stand alone on it," he added, with a significance which did not escape March. "When you've made up your mind I can give you the proof; but I'm not at liberty now to say anything more.

s hand till he could ask

e the eleven for N

" March looked at his watch. "But

ted away at a quick, light pace. Half a block off he stopped, turned round, and, seeing M

ha

Other

sn't

a-