yesterday morning, at a very early hour, i was awakened by an imperative summons from one of the trusty sleuths that patrol the river-front in the interest of the paper on which i am employed and informed that a band of celebrated literary men had just been landed from a tramp steamer at a hoboken pier.
the reticence of actors, singers, authors, practical evangelists, and female temperance agitators concerning their movements renders it necessary for a great daily paper to maintain a corps of reliable spies, whose duty it is to meet[pg 308] every incoming steamer and see that neither henry irving nor steve brodie nor lady henry somerset lands unobserved and unchronicled on our hospitable shores.
the human ferret who aroused me from my slumbers declared that the newly arrived authors were met at the pier by an active, enthusiastic little man, who instantly departed with them in the direction of the setting sun.
“and what makes you think that they were literary men?” i inquired. “are they entered on the ship’s papers as able-bodied authors?”
“naw,” rejoined the sleuth. “they’re beatin’ the contract labor law. i knew they was authors the minute i seen the little man that met them at the dock. he’s a regular author’s padrone. he’s got a hull town full of ’em back in jersey some place. i’ve known him this five year or more.”
[pg 309]i waited to hear no more, for i knew that the active little man could be none other than mcclure; and so i started without a moment’s delay for the village of syndicate on the banks of the fragrant hackensack.
on my way to the station for the authors’ settlement i met a small boy hurrying along the dusty highway. i recognized him as the son of an author who is now acting as timekeeper of the grant memoir gang, and stopped him to inquire about mr. mcclure.
“that’s him a-coming there now, i think,” replied the urchin.
i looked in the direction indicated, and saw what seemed to be a drove of cattle slowly approaching and enveloped in a cloud of dust. i sauntered along to meet them, and in a quarter of an hour at a sharp turn in the road, i encountered the strangest literary gathering that it has ever been my fortune to[pg 310] behold; and when i say this i do not forget that i have frequented some of the most brilliant literary and artistic salons that new york has ever known. at the head of the cavalcade marched mr. s. s. mcclure, the noted philanthropist, magazine editor, and founder of the model village of syndicate. he carried a pair of bagpipes under his arm, and presented such a jaded and travel-stained appearance that i was involuntarily reminded of the wandering jew. behind him marched a band of strange-looking men, attired in kilts and wearing broad whiskers, long bristly hair, and bare knees. a collie dog, panting and dust-covered, but still sharp-eyed and vigilant, trotted along beside them to prevent them from straying away and losing themselves in the new jersey prairies.
as soon as mr. mcclure’s eyes fell upon me a bright smile lit up his face,[pg 311] and he stopped short in the road, raised the pipe to his lips, and burst into a triumphant strain of scotch music. those that followed him paused in their course, and with one accord began a masterly saltatorial effort, which, i have since learned, enjoys great vogue in glasgow and dundee under the name of the “sawbath fling.” while they danced the collie squatted on his hindquarters and watched them with bright, sleepless eyes.
“mcclure,” i cried, “in the name of all that is monthly and serial, what does this mean?”
“ford,” he replied solemnly, as he advanced and took me by the hand, “you know that i have published lincoln and napoleon and grant and elizabeth stuart phelps dodge and company ward, but i have something far greater than all these for the year 1897. can you not guess the meaning[pg 312] of this brave cavalcade that you see before you?”
“what! have you actually secured professor garnier’s ‘equatorial conversational class’ as contributors to your monthly? that is, indeed, a literary triumph!”
“equatorial nothing,” retorted the great editor, testily. “i have just imported a herd of blooded scotch dialect authors under a one year’s contract. we had to walk all the way out from hoboken, because i only agreed to pay their fares to that point, and you know it’s thirty cents from there out, and a scotchman always likes to walk and see scenery when he can. the result was that i had to walk, too, for fear scribner or some of those pirates would coax them away from me, and i swear that if it hadn’t been for that dog of mine i don’t think i could have got them out here at all.”
[pg 313]at this moment the authors resumed their march, for they were eager to reach their journey’s end, and we followed behind them, with the faithful collie trotting contentedly along.
as we walked mr. mcclure continued: “we passed through a suburban town about an hour ago, where one of those other scotch authors was giving a morning lecture, and, before i knew it, we were in front of the very church in which he was at work. they heard him bleating, and there would have been a regular stampede if it hadn’t been for that dog. he had the leader of them by the throat before you could say ‘bawbee,’ and then he barked and growled and snapped at them, and finally chased the whole pack off the church steps and up the street. i got him of a firm of edinboro’ publishers, and i am going to have a kennel for him in my new york office and use him in a dozen[pg 314] different ways. look at him now, will you!”
i glanced around and saw that one of the authors had contrived to detach himself from the drove and was leaning over the fence engrossed in the contemplation of an advertisement of glenlivet whiskey, which had caught his wandering eye, and as i looked, the dog came hurrying up from behind, nipped him, with a snarl of assumed ferocity, in the calf of his leg, and sent him scampering back to his place with the others.
we were now entering the principal thoroughfare of syndicate, and the authors looked about in wonder at the silent streets and long rows of neat white cottages in which the literary toilers dwell. from the large brick factory, where the posthumous works of great authors are prepared, came the sound of busy, whirring wheels and the scratching of steam pens. in the art department[pg 315] the sledge-hammers were falling on the anvils in measured cadence—in short, everything told the story of cheerful literary activity. mr. mcclure threw open the door of a large whitewashed building, gave the word of command to the dog, and in less than a minute the sagacious quadruped had rounded up the herd of authors and driven them into their corral.
“good-by,” said the editor as he closed and bolted the door and turned to take my outstretched hand. “good-by,” he continued solemnly, and then raised his hands above my head. i took off my hat.
“now is the time to subscribe,” said mr. mcclure, impressively.
