XIII

THE HOUR OF DARK FOREBODING

With the first days of September the tension became more severe. Bills sprang up from every quarter like mushrooms, and while no one of them was very large the accumulation was considerable. The humors of the enterprise were not altogether lost sight of, however, and still furnished some relief, though there was a manifest touch of bitterness in many of their whimsicalities. There were moments of individual doubt and discouragement also—not as to the final outcome, but as to their ability to exist until such time as the crumbs which they were sowing so lavishly upon the outgoing waters should return in good brown loaves. Indeed, these were likely to be needed presently, for they were economizing at every point, and the dairy lunch and cheap table-d'hôte places served most frequently their needs. There were no more go-as-you-please dinners, and those of the past were remembered with fondness and referred to with respect.

It may have been that this system of diet resulted in clearer mental vision, or it may have been that Perner's early business training really manifested itself feebly at last, and set him to thinking logically. Whatever it was, he suddenly came out of his den into the studio, one afternoon, looking rather pale and startled. He had been through a hard day with printers and engravers, as well as voracious collectors, whose bills had an almost universal habit of error on the wrong side. The others knew the conditions and did not suspect anything unusual when he flung himself down on the Turkish couch and stared up at the skylight. Then at last he said:

"Boys, it's a failure. It won't work!"

The others looked around quickly.

"What is it? What's a failure?" They spoke together.

"The 'cash for names'; it's a fallacy."

"How? Why? Won't they do it?" This from Van Dorn.

"Oh, yes; they may, and will, probably; but we won't!"

"Oh, pshaw! Perny, what are you talking about?"

Van Dorn was becoming a little impatient—it was his scheme. Perner rose to a sitting position on the couch.

"Why, look!" said he. "We send the paper free for two weeks to each of the twenty names sent by each subscriber. That's forty papers free for every subscriber that comes."

"Of course," admitted Livingstone; "but some of those twenty names—most of them—will subscribe."

"Certainly; and each one that does so will send twenty more names, which means forty more free papers—forty papers besides the fifty-two they are to receive afterward, or ninety-two papers in all. Ninety-two papers will cost us, mailed, something like seventy-five cents; the premium will cost us at least fifty cents more, even where we charge for postage and packing. Then there is the twenty-five cents cash we pay to the sender of names. Total, one dollar and fifty cents outlay, for which we receive one dollar cash in return."

Perner looked steadily first at Livingstone, then at Van Dorn. Neither of them answered for a moment, and both became a trifle grave. Then Van Dorn said:

"But the advertising, Perny—you forget that. Even if we do lose money on subscriptions the first few months, we can afford it for the sake of a subscription list that will swell the advertising returns."

"By gad, yes," said Livingstone. "That's so—the advertising!"

Perner lay back on the couch wearily.

"Yes," he admitted; "the advertising ought to help. I keep forgetting that. I wish Bates would make a statement, though, of just what he's done in that line. He talks enough and seems to be getting along. He's kept pretty straight lately, too."

"Why don't you call on him for a statement?" asked Livingstone.

"Well, I have meant to, but he's so peculiar, you know, and I didn't want to offend him."

"No; of course, we can't afford to do that now," Van Dorn agreed. "We're under obligations to Bates for placing our advertising with Jackson. I don't believe anybody else would have taken it without money down. Bates having worked there once is the reason he did it."

Livingstone was painting on his picture of the bread line.

"I've a mind to make one of these fellows look like Bates," he laughed, "out of gratitude."

"Do it," urged Perner. "He'll be there some day if he keeps on drinking."

"How much advertising did we take, in all?" asked Van Dorn, presently.

Perner went somewhat into detail in his reply:

"Well, you see, we made the 'Sunday-School Union' a page instead of a half-page so we could get in the big cut of the Bible, and we took a half-page instead of a quarter in 'Boy's Own' so's to get in the gun and the camera, with a small cut of the watch. Then we took a page each in two school papers to get in the gun and Bible both, and the small cuts of the watch and camera. All these, of course, are in addition to what we had counted on before. It amounts to about thirteen hundred dollars in all."

There were some moments of silence after this statement. None of them had any superstition concerning this particular number of hundreds, and the amount was pitifully small compared to the figures they had used from time to time so recklessly in estimating their returns. For some unexplained reason, however, the sudden reality of the sum, and the dead certainty that this was not a mirage of champagne or a fancy of smoke, but a hard, cold fact that had to be met with money, caused the two listeners to have a cold, sinking sensation in stomachs that were none too full. Van Dorn was first to recover. He said with weak cheerfulness:

"Oh, well, it isn't a third what Frisby took, and he didn't have a dollar."

"Sure enough!" rejoiced Livingstone. "Lucky we don't have to pay it now though." There was another period of silence; then he added, "What time is it getting to be, Perny?"

As there was no immediate answer to this, Livingstone wheeled half-way around from his easel for the reply, and saw Perner studying somewhat solemnly the dial of one of the fat "Whole Family" watches. Perner usually carried a rather elegant gold time-piece, a memory of his business career, and the only one in the party. Livingstone was about to comment on its absence, but was restrained by a sudden delicacy. Perner's watch might be out for repairs, or he might be wearing this ridiculous affair out of loyalty to the paper; but these were troublous times, and there was the possibility of still another solution of the matter.

"Five o'clock," decided Perner, at last, "lacking four minutes. I suppose I'm through with the leeches for to-day."

The words were barely uttered when the door opened and a boy entered with bills in one hand and a letter in the other.

"I spoke a little too soon, it seems," Perner concluded, taking the envelop which the boy had extended uncertainly toward each of them in turn.

The envelop contained a brief communication—also a bill. Perner held the latter in his hand while he ran his eye hastily over the former. Then he glanced at the amount of the bill, and Van Dorn, who was watching him, saw that he was rather white. He turned to the boy quite carelessly, however.

"You may leave these. We will attend to them to-morrow." Then, as the collector vanished, he looked up at Van Dorn with, "It's the bill for the advertising. We are to pay before it goes in."

Van Dorn half rose to his feet. Livingstone gasped.

"Listen," said Perner, and he read the letter to them:

"OFFICE OF JACKSON & MARSH, ETC.

"New York, September 2, 1897.

"Publishers of the 'Whole Family,' New York.

"Gentlemen: We hand you herewith net bill of your advertising, cash discount being taken off as per your instructions through Mr. Bates. Upon receipt of your check for the amount we will give our final O. K. to the various periodicals, most of which are now ready for the press. With thanks for your order, we ask, therefore, that you kindly be very prompt, and greatly oblige,

"Yours, etc., "Jackson & Marsh. "Per C."

Perner looked up from the letter at Van Dorn. The artist regarded him a full minute in silence. Then he said huskily:

"Don't that beat hell?"

"It does," groaned Livingstone. "Bully for Bates!"