Mr. McFarland, said Ned in his best manner, this is an old friend of mine whom I wired the other day. He’s been down in North Carolina working on a book. I begged him to come up and give us a hand. Mr. Miller, Mr. McFarland.
As we shook hands I unconsciously made obeisance to the great figure of the magazine world. For a moment or two no one spoke. McFarland was sizing me up. I must say I took to him immediately.
Man of action, there was in McFarland a brooding poetic streak which dyed all his gestures. He’s no slouch, that’s certain, I thought to myself, wondering at the same time how it was that he could permit himself to be surrounded by nit-wits and half-wits.
Ned quickly explained that I had arrived only a few minutes ago and in that brief space of time, with scarcely any knowledge of the project, had written the pages which he now proceeded to hand over.
You’re a writer, are you? asked McFarland, glancing up at me and trying to read at the same time.
You’re the best judge of that, I replied, employing the diplomatic style.
Silence for a good few minutes as McFarland carefully perused the copy. I was on pins and needles. To hoowink a bird like McFarland wasn’t simple. I forgot, incidentally, what I had written. Couldn’t remember a single line.
Suddenly McFarland looked up, smiled warmly, and remarked that what I had written looked promising. I felt that a great deal more was implied. It was almost affection which he now inspired in me. The last thing in my mind was to deceive him. He was a man I would have enjoyed working for—if I were going to work for any one. Out of the corner of my eyes I observed Ned giving me the high sign.
For a fleeting moment, whilst gathering myself for the fling, I wondered what Mona would say if she were witness to the show. (And don’t forget to tell O’Mara about the fathers! I whispered to myself.)
McFarland was speaking. He had begun so quietly and smoothly that I was hardly aware of it. Right from the start I had again the conviction that he was no man’s dupe. People had said of him that he was finished, that his ideas were out-dated. Seventy-five he was, and still going strong. A man of his stamp could never be licked. I listened to him attentively, nodding now and then, and beaming with admiration. He was a man after my own heart. Big ideas. A gambler and a daredevil … I wondered if I shouldn’t seriously consider working for him.
It was quite a long speech the old boy was making. Despite all the signaling from Ned, I couldn’t determine where to bust in. McFarland had obviously welcomed our intrusion; seething with ideas, he had been pacing back and forth, champing at the bit. Our entrance upon the scene enabled him to let off steam. I was all for letting him go on. Now and then I nodded my head more vigorously or made some little exclamation of surprise or approval. Besides, the more he talked the better prepared I would be when it came my turn.
He was on his feet now, shifting restlessly about, pointing to the charts, the maps, and what not which ranged the walls. He was a man at home in the world, a man who had traversed the globe many times and could speak from first-hand knowledge of it. As I understood it, he was trying to impress me with the fact that he wanted to reach all the peoples of the world, the poor as well as the rich, the ignorant as well as the educated. The periodical was to come out in many languages, many formats. It was to produce a revolution in the magazine world.
Suddenly he stopped, out of weariness. He sat down at the big desk and poured himself a glass of water from the beautiful silver pitcher.
Instead of trying to show him how smart I was, I took the occasion after a respectful silence, to tell him how much I had always admired him and the ideas he had championed. I said it sincerely, and it was the right thing to say at the moment, I was sure of it. I could feel Ned growing more and more fidgety. All he could think of was the big spiel I was to pull off. Finally he couldn’t hold back any longer.
Mr. Miller would like to tell you a few things he thought of in connection with…
Not at all, said I, jumping to my feet. Ned looked bewildered. I mean, Mr. McFarland, that it would be silly of me to advance my half-baked ideas. It seems to me you’ve covered the ground quite thoroughly.
McFarland was visibly pleased. Suddenly recalling the reason for my presence, he picked up the copy lying before him and pretended to study it again.
How long have you been writing? he asked, giving me a long, penetration look. Have you done this kind of work before?
I confessed that I hadn’t.
I thought so, he said. Maybe that’s why I like this. You’ve got a fresh view of things. And an excellent command of language. What are you working on now, if I may ask?
He had me in a corner. Since he was so frank and direct there was nothing to do but return the fire pointblank.
The truth is, I stammered, I’ve only just begun to write. I try my hand at most everything, but nothing takes shape yet. I did write a book a few years ago, but I guess it was a pretty poor one.
It’s better that way, said McFarland. I don’t care for brilliant young writers. A man needs something under his belt before he can express himself. Before he really has anything to say, I mean. He drummed on the desk top, ruminating. Then he resumed: I’d like to see one of your yarns some time. Are they realistic or imaginative?
Imaginative, I hope. I said it timidly.
Good! he said. All the better. Maybe we can use something of yours soon.
I didn’t know quite what to say to this. Fortunately Ned came to my rescue.
Mr. Miller is being modest, Mr. McFarland. I’ve read almost everything he’s written. He’s got real talent. In fact, I might even say I think he has genius.
Genius, hum! That’s even more interesting, said McFarland.
Don’t you think I had better finish that copy? I put in, addressing the old man.
Take it easy, he said, we have lots of time-Tell me, what did you do before you began writing?
I gave him a brief account of my youthful adventures. When I began relating my experiences in the Cosmococcic realm he sat up. From here on it was one interruption after another. He kept forcing me to go into more and more detail. Presently he was on his feet again, moving about with tigerish strides. Go on, go on! he urged, I’m listening. He swallowed avidly every word. He demanded more and more. Bully, bully! he kept exclaiming.
Suddenly he stopped dead in front of me. Have you written about this yet?
I shook my head.
Good! Now, supposing you were to write a serial for me … Do you think you could write it the way you were telling it a moment ago?
I don’t know, sir. I could try.
Try? Shucks! Do it, man. Do it right away … Here! and he handed Ned the pages I had written. Don’t let this man waste his time on this nonsense. Get somebody else to do it.
But there’s nobody to do it, said Ned, delighted and crestfallen at the same time.
Go out and find some one, then, bellowed McFarland. Copywriters aren’t hard to find.
Yes sir, said Ned.
Once again McFarland drew close to me, this time pointing his finger right in my face. As for you, young man, he said, almost snorting now, I want you to go home and start that serial to-night. We’ll start you off in the first issue. But don’t get literary on me, do you understand? I want you to tell your story just as you related it to me a minute ago. Can you dictate to a stenographer? I suppose not. To bad. That would be the best way to get it out of you. Now listen to me … I’m not a spring chicken any more. I’ve had lots of experience and I’ve met lots of men who thought themselves geniuses. Don’t worry about whether you’re a genius or not. Don’t even think of yourself as a writer. Just pour it out—easy and natural—as if you were telling it to a friend. You’ll be telling it to me, see? I’m your friend. I don’t know if you’re a great writer or not. You’ve got a story to tell, that’s what interests me … If you do this chore satisfactorily, I’ll have something more exciting for you to tackle. I can send you to China, India, Africa, South America—wherever you please. The world is big and there’s room in it for a lad like you. By the time I was twenty-one I had been around the world three times. By the time I was twenty-five I knew eight languages. By the time I was thirty I owned a string of magazines. I’ve been a millionaire twice over. Doesn’t mean a thing. Don’t let money occupy your thoughts! I’ve been broke too—five times. I’m broke now. He tapped his bean. If you have courage and imagination there’ll always be people to lend you money…
He looked at Ned sharply.
