uested Colonel Telfair
to give him a conference and whatever information about the magazine
he might desire.

"I've been corresponding with the secretary of the magazine owners
for some time," said Thacker, briskly. "I'm a practical magazine man
myself, and a circulation booster as good as any, if I do say it.
I'll guarantee an increase of anywhere from ten thousand to a hundred
thousand a year for any publication that isn't printed in a dead
language. I've had my eye on _The Rose of Dixie_ ever since it
started. I know every end of the business from editing to setting up
the classified ads. Now, I've come down here to put a good bunch of
money in the magazine, if I can see my way clear. It ought to be made
to pay. The secretary tells me it's losing money. I don't see why a
magazine in the South, if it's properly handled, shouldn't get a good
circulation in the North, too."

Colonel Telfair leaned back in his chair and polished his gold-rimmed
glasses.

"Mr. Thacker," said he, courteously but firmly, "_The Rose of Dixie_
is a publication devoted to the fostering and the voicing of Southern
genius. Its watchword, which you may have seen on the cover, is 'Of,
For, and By the South.'"

"But you wouldn't object to a Northern circulation, would you?" asked
Thacker.

"I suppose," said the editor-colonel, "that it is customary to open
the circulation lists to all. I do not know. I have nothing to do with
the business affairs of the magazine. I was called upon to assume
editorial control of it, and I have devoted to its conduct such poor
literary talents as I may possess and whatever store of erudition I
may have acquired."

"Sure," said Thacker. "But a dollar is a dollar anywhere, North,
South, or West--whether you're buying codfish, goober peas, or Rocky
Ford cantaloupes. Now, I've been looking over your November number. I
see one here on your desk. You don't mind running over it with me?

"Well, your leading article is all right. A good write-up of the
cotton-belt with plenty of photographs is a winner any time. New York
is always interested in the cotton crop. And this sensational account
of the Hatfield-McCoy feud, by a schoolmate of a niece of the Governor
of Kentucky, isn't such a bad idea. It happened so long ago that most
people have forgotten it. Now, here's a poem three pages long called
'The Tyrant's Foot,' by Lorella Lascelles. I've pawed around a good
deal over manuscripts, but I never saw her name on a