“I could guarantee a big circulation.  I have just become interested in one of the great transcontinental lines.”  He named the most picturesque of them—­one that he, in fact, absolutely controlled.  “Well, I want a story, yes, I guess a good love-story—­a romance of reality you might call it—­strung on that line.  You take the idea?”

“Why,” said Philip, half amused at the conceit and yet complimented by the recognition of his talent, “I don’t know anything about railroads —­how they are run, cost of building, prospect of traffic, engineering difficulties, all that—­nothing whatever.”

“So much the better.  It is a literary work I want, not a brag about the road or a description of its enterprise.  You just take the line as your scene.  Let the story run on that.  The company, don’t you see, must not in any way be suspected with having anything to do with it, no mention of its name as a company, no advertisement of the road on a fly-leaf or cover.  Just your own story, pure and simple.”

“But,” said Philip, more and more astonished at this unlooked-for expansion of the literary field, “I could not embark on an enterprise of such magnitude.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Ault, complacently, “that will be all arranged.  Just a pleasure trip, as far as that goes.  You will have a private car, well stocked, a photographer will go along, and I think—­don’t you? a water-color artist.  You can take your own time, stop when and where you choose—­at the more stations the better.  It ought to be profusely illustrated with scenes on the line—­yes, have colored plates, all that would give life and character to your story.  Love on a Special, some such title as that.  It would run like oil.  I will arrange to have it as a serial in one of the big magazines, and then the book would be bound to go.  The company, of course, can have nothing to do with it, but I can tell you privately that it would rather distribute a hundred thousand copies of a book of good literature through the country than to encourage the railway truck that is going now.

“I shouldn’t wonder, Mr. Burnett, if the public would be interested in having the Puritan Nun take that kind of a trip.”  And Mr. Ault ended his explanation with an interrogatory smile.

Philip hesitated a moment, trying to grasp the conception of this business use of literature.  Mr. Ault resumed: 

“It isn’t anything in the nature of an advertisement.  Literature is a power.  Why, do you know—­of course you did not intend it—­your story has encouraged the Peacock Inn to double its accommodations, and half the farmhouses in Rivervale are expecting summer boarders.  The landlord of the Peacock came to see me the other day, and he says everything is stirred up there, and he has already to enlarge or refuse application.”

“It is very kind in you, Mr. Ault, to think of me in that connection, but I fear you have over-estimated my capacity.  I could name half a dozen men who could do it much better than I could.  They know how to do it, they have that kind of touch.  I have been surprised at the literary ability engaged by the great corporations.”