I became telepathically aware that I was considered
crazy, so I changed the subject.

I am often asked how I happened to meet my publishers and "get in with
them," and as a very great favour to me, and to them, I am offered the
privilege of sending them some "splendid novel which was written by a
friend" of somebody--as they know me, "they have decided to let my
publishers have the book!"

They are surprised to hear me say that I have never met any member of
the firm, though I was in the same city with them for over a year.
More than this, there is nothing on earth, except a green worm, which
would scare me so much as a summons to that publishing house.

I have walked by in fear and trembling. I have seen a huge pile of my
books in the window, and on the bulletin board a poster which bore my
name in conspicuous letters, as if I had been cured of something. But
I should no more dare to go into that office than I should venture to
call upon the wife of the President with a shawl over my head, and my
fancywork tucked under my arm.

This is incomprehensible to the uninitiated. The publishers have ever
been most courteous and kind. They are people with whom it is a
pleasure to have any sort of business dealings, but we are not bosom
friends--and I very much fear that they do not care to become chummy
with me.

There may be some authors who have taken nerve tonics and are not
afraid to meet an editor or publisher. I have even read of some who
will walk cheerfully into an editorial sanctum--but I've never seen a
sanctum, nor an editor, nor a publisher. I don't even write to an
editor when I send him a piece--just put in a stamp. He usually knows
what to do with it.

Fame, or long experience, may enable authors to meet the arbiters of
their destiny without becoming frightened, but I have had brief
experience, and still less fame. The admirable qualities of the
pachyderm may have been bestowed upon some authors--but not on this
one.

The Man Behind the Gun

Now let the eagle flap his wings
And let the cannon roar,
For while the conquering bullet sings
We pledge the commodore.
First battle of a righteous war
Right royally he won,
But here's a health to the jolly tar--
To the man behind the gun!

Now praise be to the flag-ship's spars--
To the captain in command,
And honour to the Stripes and Stars
For whose defence they stand;