lived in that very lean-to, a bachelor then but married to me now.  He often wishes there had been a photographer there in those days, he would have taken the lean-to.  He got hurt in the old Hal Clayton claim that was abandoned like the others, putting in a blast and not climbing out quick enough, though he scrambled the best he could.  It landed him clear down on the train and hit a Piute.  For weeks they thought he would not get over it but he did, and is all right, now.  Has been ever since.  This is a long introduction but it is the only way I can make myself known.  The favor I ask I feel assured your generous heart will grant:  Give me some advice about a book I have written.  I do not claim anything for it only it is mostly true and as interesting as most of the books of the times.  I am unknown in the literary world and you know what that means unless one has some one of influence (like yourself) to help you by speaking a good word for you.  I would like to place the book on royalty basis plan with any one you would suggest.

This is a secret from my husband and family.  I intend it as a surprise in case I get it published.

Feeling you will take an interest in this and if possible write me a letter to some publisher, or, better still, if you could see them for me and then let me hear.

I appeal to you to grant me this favor.  With deepest gratitude I think you for your attention.

One knows, without inquiring, that the twin of that embarrassing letter is forever and ever flying in this and that and the other direction across the continent in the mails, daily, nightly, hourly, unceasingly, unrestingly.  It goes to every well-known merchant, and railway official, and manufacturer, and capitalist, and Mayor, and Congressman, and Governor, and editor, and publisher, and author, and broker, and banker—­in a word, to every person who is supposed to have “influence.”  It always follows the one pattern:  “You do not know me, but you once knew A relative of mine,” etc., etc.  We should all like to help the applicants, we should all be glad to do it, we should all like to return the sort of answer that is desired, but—­Well, there is not a thing we can do that would be a help, for not in any instance does that latter ever come from anyone who can be helped.  The struggler whom you could help does his own helping; it would not occur to him to apply to you, stranger.  He has talent and knows it, and he goes into his fight eagerly and with energy and determination—­all alone, preferring to be alone.  That pathetic letter which comes to you from the incapable, the unhelpable—­how do you who are familiar with it answer it?  What do you find to say?  You do not want to inflict a wound; you hunt ways to avoid that.  What do you find?  How do you get out of your hard place with a contend conscience?  Do you try to explain?  The old reply of mine to such a letter shows that I tried that once.  Was I satisfied with the result?  Possibly; and possibly not; probably not; almost certainly not.  I have long ago forgotten all about it.  But, anyway, I append my effort: