om?"

"Why, Barry, I can scarcely imagine anything more unpleasant than to be
turned upside down, fifteen feet from maternal earth, with an undeniable
chance of breaking one's neck, on a four-inch rope. But why do you ask?"

"M. Ravel distorts himself for a salary, and no questions asked. I do the
same. I throw literary summersets for a golden consideration. It is a very
simple arrangement"--here Barescythe drew a diagram on the palm of his
hand--"Messrs. Printem & Sellem (my thumb) give us, 'The Morning Glory,'
(my forefinger) costly advertisements, and I, Barescythe, (the little
finger) am expected to laud all the books they publish."

Out of respect to Barescythe, I restrained my laughter.

He went on, with a ruthful face:

"Here is '_The Life of Jinkings_'--the life of a puppy!--an individual of
whom nobody ever heard till now, a very clever, harmless, good man _in his
way_, no doubt,--the big gun of a little village, but no more worthy of a
biography than a printer's devil!"

With which words, Barescythe hit an imaginary Mr. Jinkings in the stomach
with evident satisfaction.

"Yet I am called upon to tell the world that this individual, this what do
you call him?--Jinkings--is one of the luminaries of the age, a mental
Hercules, a new Prometheus--the clown! Why on earth did his friends want to
resurrectionize the insipid incidents of this man's milk-and-water
existence! If he made a speech on the introduction of a 'Town-pump,' or
delivered an essay at the 'Bell Tavern'--it was very kind of him, to be
sure: but why not bury his bad English with him in the country church-yard?
I wish they had, for I am expected to say that ten thousand copies of the
'work' have been sold, when I know that only five hundred were printed; or
else Messrs. Printem & Sellem withdraw their advertisements, in which case
my occupation's gone! And this '_Scavenger's Daughter_'--a book written by
a sentimental schoolgirl, and smelling of bread-and-butter--see how I have
plastered it all over with panegyric!"

"And so, Barry," I said, with some malice, "you wantingly abuse _my_ book,
because I cannot injure _you_ pecuniarily."

"Perhaps I do," growled Barescythe. "It is a relief to say an honest thing
now and then; but wait, Ralph, till I start _The Weekly Critique_, then
look out for honest, slashing criticism. No longer hedged in by the
interests and timidity of 'the proprietors,' I shall handle books for
themselves, and not their ad