Quincy did as requested and took a seat beside Leopold.

“These,” said Leopold, “are the proofs of the first writings of a to-be-famous American author.  Glad she took a man’s name, so I don’t have to say authoress.  Here,” he continued, “are the proofs of the story, Was it Signed?  Cooper wishes it read and returned immediately.  Editors wish everything done immediately.  They loaf on their end and expect the poor author to sit up all night and make up for their shortcomings.  I’m a sort of editor myself, and I know what I’m talking about.  This lot,” he continued, “will appear in ‘The Sunday Universe’ a week from next Sunday.  I had a copy made for Jameson to work from.  Bruce Douglas owes me four-fifty for expenses, necessary but not authorized.”

“I will see that you are reimbursed,” said Quincy; “want it now?” and he made a motion to take out his pocketbook.

“No,” replied Leopold, “I’m flush to-day; keep it till some time when I’m strapped.  Last, and most important of all, here are the proofs of the story that is to appear in our monthly.  Now, my advice to you is, Quincy, seek the fair author at once, correct these proofs and have them back to me within three days, or they’ll go over and she’ll be charged for keeping the type standing, besides having her pay hung up for another week.”

“She won’t mind that,” said Quincy, with a laugh.  “She’s an heiress now, with real and personal property valued at fifty thousand dollars.  But what am I to do?” asked he seriously.  “I could read the manuscript, but we have no one at Eastborough who knows how to make those pothooks and scratches that you call ‘corrections.’”

“Well, you two young aspirants for literary fame are in a box, are’nt you?  I was thinking about that fifty thousand.  Perhaps I’d better go home with you and get acquainted with the author,” said Leopold with a laugh.

“Well,” returned Quincy, “it would be very kind of you in our present emergency, but, strange as it may seem, I came to see you this afternoon about securing a literary assistant for Miss Pettengill.  She has decided to write that book.”

“Good girl!” cried Leopold, sitting bolt upright upon the lounge.  “I mean, good boy, for it was, no doubt, your acknowledged powers of argument and gently persuasive ways that have secured this consummation of my desire.  Let me think;” and he scratched his head vigorously.  “I think I have it,” said he, finally.  “One of our girls down to the office worked so hard during our late splurge that the doctor told her she must rest this week.  She rooms over on Myrtle Street.  I happened to be late in getting out one day last week, and we walked together up as far as Chestnut Street.  She lives nearly down to the end of Myrtle Street.”

“No further explanation or extenuation is necessary,” said Quincy.  “Is she pretty?”