A Literary Courtship/Chapter 2

by Anna Fuller

II.

The Nom-de-plume.

JOHN was working like a tiger for the next six months or more, and we all wondered what he was at But he hates to be pumped, and is always mighty close about his writing. We have an idea that he begins things and does not finish them. He is fastidious, and he does not turn out as much work as you would expect from the ease with which he seems to write.

One evening the following January I happened in on John, and found him sitting in front of a fine old fire, smoking his pet pipe and clutching a very fat manuscript. Uncommonly cosey quarters he used to have. I never could see why a fellow like Brunt should want to get married and give up all the comforts of life. Things can never be the same again. It's sure to spoil half the fun,—especially for your bachelor friends. In my mind, at least, women are always associated with swallow-tail coats and sweet wine, and expensive ash-trays on queer little legs, that break if you look at them.

Women are well enough, of course, in their place—within their limitations, as the wiseacres say. At balls, for instance, or at dinner parties, they are very good company. At a ball, especially, one would always wish to see them. It's not much fun dancing with another fellow, even when he ties a handkerchief round his arm and dances "lady." But in a man's own house they always seem a little in the way.

To return to John and his den. It did look pleasant there when I stepped in on that cold evening and found that great fire burning and the air fragrant with pipe smoke, and John, all by himself, hanging on to his manuscript as though he were afraid it might get away.

"Hullo, Jack," said I.

"Hullo, Dick," said he, with a pleased sort of grin. "You're just the fellow I was wanting to see."

Now if there is anything that makes a man feel good it is that kind of a welcome. So different from the way a woman sticks out her hand, and says, "Very happy to see you, Mr. Dickson." Not that that is such a bad thing to hear either, only you know they will say it just the same whether they mean it or not.

Well, I saw that I had come in the nick of time. I knew by the way John clutched his manuscript that it was finished, and by the way he said "Hullo" that he meant to tell me all about it. So I sat down and lighted my pipe and waited for him to begin.

"Well, Dick, I've finished my novel."

My real name, by the way, is Francis Dickson, though many people suppose it to be Richard from the fellows calling me Dick. Rather an annoying mistake, for I was named after my uncle the General, and not being distinguished myself, I am unwilling to lose any reflected glory. However, I was not so egotistical as to be thinking of that when John told me about his novel.

"Glad to hear it," said I, as though I had been in the secret all along. "What is it about?"

"Oh, all kinds of things."

"What is it called?"

"Spoils."

"Good title! And with your name on the title-page it will go off like hot cakes."

"Ah! But that is just the point. My name is not to be on the title-page."

"Not on the title-page? What is the reason of that?"

"Well, in order to start fair without any preconceived ideas on the part of the public, I don't propose to sell my novel on the strength of Louis XI. or The South Pole. I want the public to be unbiassed. Then besides," he added, after a pause, "I am going to try an experiment."

There was a look in his eye which suddenly reminded me of that talk at the Pow-wow. Was it possible that John had written a novel for the purpose of clinching an argument? Nothing could have been, after all, more in character. But I curbed my curiosity and amusement, and asked, innocently enough: "Have you chosen your nom-de-plume?"

"Yes, just about. I am going to use a woman's name."

"You don't say so! And what is the name?'"

"Well, I have had several in mind. I should like to know what you think of," here he fixed me with his eye, as though he had been taking aim, and said, with a lingering emphasis—"Lilian Leslie Lamb"?

I still kept my countenance, though with difficulty. There sat John, great strapping fellow, with his sunburnt face and sandy moustache, his strong, pronounced features and keen eyes, the typical camper-out and club man, and in his great deep bass voice he was proposing to call himself Lilian Leslie Lamb!

He, meanwhile, did not seem to see the humor of the thing.

"Lilian Leslie Lamb" he repeated, weighing the words with evident satisfaction. "It is striking, it is alliterative, and it is intensely feminine. Moreover, the name might perfectly well be genuine. I once knew a girl named Mary M Morse. I always had a notion that the middle initial stood for Morris. Mary Morris Morse! That is very much the same kind of name, only I think mine is prettier, don't you?"

This self-complacency was the finishing touch. I put my head back and roared, and then, all of a sudden, Jack seemed to see the joke, and he struck his knee and roared too. I declare! We hadn't had such a laugh since the day Old Hobbins forgot his wig.

Well, when we had got pretty well shaken up, we quieted down again, and talked the matter over soberly. That is, by spells. For every little while the absurdity of the thing would come over me and off I would go again. Brunt was good-natured about it, though he didn't alwaysjoinin. First of all, he swore me to secrecy. He did not want any halfway work, he said. He was going to give his experiment a fair trial. He thought he had written a good novel; and that settled the question in my mind, for John was always harder to please than his readers. He said that if the book should be a failure or even a half success, he should be free to admit that it was owing to the woman's name. He proposed sending it to the Sandersons. Bates & Bramford knew his hand, which might betray his identity, and then he thought novels more in the Sandersons' line.

"What!" I cried. "You're not even going to let your publishers into the secret? Supposing they reject it."

"Poh! Publishers are not such fools as people think. The Sandersons know a good thing when they see it, and that novel is a good one, I can tell you that to begin with."

He then gave me the outlines of the plot, which was a strong one, and we sat talking things over till nearly breakfast time. Jove! Those were good old times. I often wish them back.