“Or ’The Hog on Ice’—­either stand up or fall down, you know,” Fulkerson broke in coarsely.  “But we’ll leave the name of the magazine till we get the editor.  I see the poison’s beginning to work in you, March; and if I had time I’d leave the result to time.  But I haven’t.  I’ve got to know inside of the next week.  To come down to business with you, March, I sha’n’t start this thing unless I can get you to take hold of it.”

He seemed to expect some acknowledgment, and March said, “Well, that’s very nice of you, Fulkerson.”

“No, sir; no, sir!  I’ve always liked you and wanted you ever since we met that first night.  I had this thing inchoately in my mind then, when I was telling you about the newspaper syndicate business—­beautiful vision of a lot of literary fellows breaking loose from the bondage of publishers and playing it alone—­”

“You might call it ‘The Lone Hand’; that would be attractive,” March interrupted.  “The whole West would know what you meant.”

Fulkerson was talking seriously, and March was listening seriously; but they both broke off and laughed.  Fulkerson got down off the table and made some turns about the room.  It was growing late; the October sun had left the top of the tall windows; it was still clear day, but it would soon be twilight; they had been talking a long time.  Fulkerson came and stood with his little feet wide apart, and bent his little lean, square face on March.  “See here!  How much do you get out of this thing here, anyway?”

“The insurance business?” March hesitated a moment and then said, with a certain effort of reserve, “At present about three thousand.”  He looked up at Fulkerson with a glance, as if he had a mind to enlarge upon the fact, and then dropped his eyes without saying more.

Whether Fulkerson had not thought it so much or not, he said:  “Well, I’ll give you thirty-five hundred.  Come!  And your chances in the success.”

“We won’t count the chances in the success.  And I don’t believe thirty-five hundred would go any further in New York than three thousand in Boston.”

“But you don’t live on three thousand here?”

“No; my wife has a little property.”

“Well, she won’t lose the income if you go to New York.  I suppose you pay ten or twelve hundred a year for your house here.  You can get plenty of flats in New York for the same money; and I understand you can get all sorts of provisions for less than you pay now—­three or four cents on the pound.  Come!”

This was by no means the first talk they had had about the matter; every three or four months during the past two years the syndicate man had dropped in upon March to air the scheme and to get his impressions of it.  This had happened so often that it had come to be a sort of joke between them.  But now Fulkerson clearly meant business, and March had a struggle to maintain himself in a firm poise of refusal.