And now we are in the Gay Nineties, the mid Gay Nineties, when a hair-cloth sofa adorns every parlor and over-decoration is running riot; when our intelligentsia are reading Anthony Hope’s Prisoner of Zenda, Stanley Weyman’s Gentlemen of France and George McCutcheon’s Graustark; when William Morris is printing Chaucer, with illustrations by Burne-Jones, and Aubrey Beardsley is providing an ample excuse for the Yellow Book; when LeGallienne’s Golden Girl is brought over here by John Lane and established in a bookshop on lower Fifth Avenue, and Bliss Carman is singing his songs of rare beauty; when the Fifth Avenue Hotel and the nearby Algonquin are flourishing Madison Square hostelries; when Stern’s and McCreery are across the street from Putnam’s and Eden Musee, and the modern skyscraper is only an architect’s vague dream.

Into this glad era a young man steps off a Twenty-third Street horse-car. This young man, now an ambitious designer, printer, editor and publisher, is yourself.

At the age of twenty-seven you are sporting the encouraging beginnings of a mustache, still too thin to permit of twirling at the tips. There is also the brave suggestion of a Vandyke. These embellishments are brown, as is also true of abundant and wavy hair of artistic and poetic length. Your waistcoat is buttoned high, and your soft, white collar is adorned with a five-inch-wide black cravat tied in a flowing bowknot. Your short jacket and tight-fitting pants quite possibly need pressing. A black derby and well-polished shoes complete your distinguished appearance. Many scrubbings have failed to remove all traces of printing ink from beneath and at the base of your finger nails.

You are on your way to Scribner’s. A few moments later we find you seated in a leather-upholstered chair in the editorial department of this famous publishing house. You are waiting patiently and hopefully while an editor is penning a note of introduction to Richard Harding Davis, the popular writer of romantic fiction.

Now, the note safely bestowed in your breast pocket, the envelope showing above a liberal display of silk handkerchief and thus plainly in view of passing pedestrians who would doubtless be filled with envy did they but know its contents, you are crossing Madison Square Park on your way to one of the Twenties, where Mr. Davis has his lodging. You reach the house, walk up the steps and rap.“Is Mr. Davis at home? Why ... why you are Mr. Davis. I ... I didn’t recognize you at first. Seeing you portrayed in Mr. Gibson’s illustrations to some of your romances—”

“And now seeing me in this bathrobe you naturally were a bit confused?”

“Yes, I was.”

“I’m not at all surprised.”

“Here, Mr. Davis, is a letter, I mean a note introducing me to you.”

“How about coming inside while I read the note?”

“That’s ... that’s what I was hoping you’d say, Mr. Davis.”

And now our favorite romantic author is seated with one leg thrown over the corner of a table. “Of course. Of course,” he exclaims, cordially, “I know your posters and your cover designs. And now you are starting a magazine and you would like one of my stories for your first number?”“Yes, Mr. Davis. That is what I should like.”

“Of course I’ll write a story for you. I shall be happy to write a story; and I have one in mind that I think will be just the kind you will like for your new magazine.”

“Well, Mr. Davis, that’s something that’s just about as wonderful as anything that could possibly happen to anybody. Only ... only—”

“Only you are not really started and your magazine hasn’t begun to earn money, and so you are wondering—”

“Yes, Mr. Davis—”

“Well, lad,” and now Mr. Davis has his arm about your shoulders. “Well, lad, just go home to your Wayside Press print-shop in Springfield and don’t do any worrying about payment. Sometime when you are rich and feel like sending me something,—why, any amount you happen to send will be quite all right with me—and good luck go with you.”(At this point it should be stated that when a small check goes to Mr. Davis, with an apology for it being just the first installment and that another check will go a month later, the return mail brings a pleasant letter of thanks and an acknowledgment of payment in full.)

And now, as you are recrossing Madison Square Park, your head so high in the clouds that not even the tips of your toes are touching the earth, all the birds in the neighborhood, including the sparrows, have gathered and are singing glad anthems of joy; and all the trees that an hour ago were just in green leaf are now billowed with beautiful flowers.

Well, that is that, and of course you are now sitting pretty. But presently we see you on a Fifth Avenue bus, returning from Fifty-ninth Street where, in a sumptuous Victorian apartment overlooking Central Park you have asked William Dean Howells for a story—and on this incident we will charitably draw the curtain.

Meanwhile Bradley: His Book met with kind reception—advance orders for the second number being: Brentano’s New York, six hundred copies, Old Corner Bookstore, Boston, four hundred, etc.; the first issue being out of print except for the supply being held for new subscribers. Pratt, Sixth Avenue, New York, sent check to pay for one hundred subscriptions.

There being no joy in doing today what one did yesterday, or what another did yesterday; and creative design in which there is no joy or laughter being of little worth, a new lay-out and change of stock were provided for each issue of Bradley: His Book; the fifth number started a change of format.

But as a business tycoon Will Bradley was a lamentable failure despite this auspicious start—a story I have already told.