d
tending to throw light on the relation of authors to publishers. Millard
noted what seemed to him a bias against publishers, of whom as a human
species Bradley evidently entertained no great opinion. Millard's love
for particulars was piqued by Bradley's statement at their first meeting
that he was engaged in general literary work. He contrived to bring the
author to talk of what he was doing and how it was done.

"You see," said Bradley, pleased to impart information on a theme in
which he was much interested himself, "a literary life isn't what people
generally take it to be. Most men in general literary work fail because
they can do only one thing or, at most, two. To make a living one must
be able to do everything."

"I suppose that is so," said Millard, still unable to form any notion of
what was implied in Bradley's everything. To him all literature was
divided into prose and poetry. General literature seemed to include both
of these and something more.

"Last week," Bradley continued, illustratively, "I finished an index,
wrote some verses for a pictorial advertisement of Appleblossom's Toilet
Soap, and ground out an encyclopaedia article on Christian Missions, and
a magazine paper on the history of the game of bumblepuppy. I am now
just beginning a novel of society life. Versatility is the very
foundation of success. If it hadn't been for my knack of doing all sorts
of things I never should have succeeded as I have."

Judging by Bradley's surroundings and his own account of the sordid
drudgery of a worker in general literature, his success did not seem to
Millard a very stunning one. But Bradley was evidently content with it,
and what more can one ask of fortune?

"There is another element that goes a long way toward success in
literature," proceeded the author, "and that is ability to work rapidly.
When Garfield was shot I was out of work and two weeks behind with my
board. I went straight to the Astor Library and worked till the library
closed, gathering material. When I went to bed that night, or rather the
next morning, I had a paper on 'Famous Assassinations of History' ready
for the best market. But what I hate the most about our business is the
having to write, now and then, a thunder and lightning story for the
weekly blood-curdlers. Now there is Milwain, the poet, a man of genius,
but by shop girls and boys reading the Saturday-night papers he is
adored as Guy St. Cyr, the author of a long list o