They went on in an antiphony of praise till March said:  “Really, I don’t see what’s left me but to strike for higher wages.  I perceive that I’m indispensable.”

“Why, old man, you’re coming in on the divvy, you know,” said Fulkerson.

They both laughed, and when Fulkerson was gone, Mrs. March asked her husband what a divvy was.

“It’s a chicken before it’s hatched.”

“No!  Truly?”

He explained, and she began to spend the divvy.

At Mrs. Leighton’s Fulkerson gave Alma all the honor of the success; he told her mother that the girl’s design for the cover had sold every number, and Mrs. Leighton believed him.

“Well, Ah think Ah maght have some of the glory,” Miss Woodburn pouted.  “Where am Ah comin’ in?”

“You’re coming in on the cover of the next number,” said Fulkerson.”  We’re going to have your face there; Miss Leighton’s going to sketch it in.”  He said this reckless of the fact that he had already shown them the design of the second number, which was Beaton’s weird bit of gas-country landscape.

“Ah don’t see why you don’t wrahte the fiction for your magazine, Mr. Fulkerson,” said the girl.

This served to remind Fulkerson of something.  He turned to her father.  “I’ll tell you what, Colonel Woodburn, I want Mr. March to see some chapters of that book of yours.  I’ve been talking to him about it.”

“I do not think it would add to the popularity of your periodical, sir,” said the Colonel, with a stately pleasure in being asked.  “My views of a civilization based upon responsible slavery would hardly be acceptable to your commercialized society.”

“Well, not as a practical thing, of course,” Fulkerson admitted.  “But as something retrospective, speculative, I believe it would make a hit.  There’s so much going on now about social questions; I guess people would like to read it.”

“I do not know that my work is intended to amuse people,” said the Colonel, with some state.

“Mah goodness!  Ah only wish it was, then,” said his daughter; and she added:  “Yes, Mr. Fulkerson, the Colonel will be very glad to submit po’tions of his woak to yo’ edito’.  We want to have some of the honaw.  Perhaps we can say we helped to stop yo’ magazine, if we didn’t help to stawt it.”

They all laughed at her boldness, and Fulkerson said:  “It ’ll take a good deal more than that to stop ‘Every Other Week’.  The Colonel’s whole book couldn’t do it.”  Then he looked unhappy, for Colonel Woodburn did not seem to enjoy his reassuring words; but Miss Woodburn came to his rescue.  “You maght illustrate it with the po’trait of the awthoris daughtaw, if it’s too late for the covah.”

“Going to have that in every number, Miss Woodburn!” he cried.

“Oh, mah goodness!” she said, with mock humility.

Alma sat looking at her piquant head, black, unconsciously outlined against the lamp, as she sat working by the table.  “Just keep still a moment!”