A silence followed, of rather painful length.  It was broken by the cheery voice of Fulkerson, sent before him to herald Fulkerson’s cheery person.  “Well, I suppose you’ve got the glorious success of ‘Every Other Week’ down pretty cold in your talk by this time.  I should have been up sooner to join you, but I was nipping a man for the last page of the cover.  I guess we’ll have to let the Muse have that for an advertisement instead of a poem the next time, March.  Well, the old gentleman given you boys your scolding?” The person of Fulkerson had got into the room long before he reached this question, and had planted itself astride a chair.  Fulkerson looked over the chairback, now at March, and now at the elder Dryfoos as he spoke.

March answered him.  “I guess we must have been waiting for you, Fulkerson.  At any rate, we hadn’t got to the scolding yet.”

“Why, I didn’t suppose Mr. Dryfoos could ‘a’ held in so long.  I understood he was awful mad at the way the thing started off, and wanted to give you a piece of his mind, when he got at you.  I inferred as much from a remark that he made.”  March and Dryfoos looked foolish, as men do when made the subject of this sort of merry misrepresentation.

“I reckon my scolding will keep awhile yet,” said the old man, dryly.

“Well, then, I guess it’s a good chance to give Mr. Dryfoos an idea of what we’ve really done ­just while we’re resting, as Artemus Ward says.  Heigh, March?”

“I will let you blow the trumpet, Fulkerson.  I think it belongs strictly to the advertising department,” said March.  He now distinctly resented the old man’s failure to say anything to him of the magazine; he made his inference that it was from a suspicion of his readiness to presume upon a recognition of his share in the success, and he was determined to second no sort of appeal for it.

“The advertising department is the heart and soul of every business,” said Fulkerson, hardily, “and I like to keep my hand in with a little practise on the trumpet in private.  I don’t believe Mr. Dryfoos has got any idea of the extent of this thing.  He’s been out among those Rackensackens, where we were all born, and he’s read the notices in their seven by nine dailies, and he’s seen the thing selling on the cars, and he thinks he appreciates what’s been done.  But I should just like to take him round in this little old metropolis awhile, and show him ’Every Other Week’ on the centre tables of the millionaires ­the Vanderbilts and the Astors ­and in the homes of culture and refinement everywhere, and let him judge for himself.  It’s the talk of the clubs and the dinner-tables; children cry for it; it’s the Castoria of literature and the Pearline of art, the ’Won’t-be-happy-till-he-gets-it of every en lightened man, woman, and child in this vast city.  I knew we could capture the country; but, my goodness!  I didn’t expect to have New York fall into our hands at a blow.  But that’s just exactly what New York has done.  Every Other Week supplies the long-felt want that’s been grinding round in New York and keeping it awake nights ever since the war.  It’s the culmination of all the high and ennobling ideals of the past.”

“How much,” asked Dryfoos, “do you expect to get out of it the first year, if it keeps the start it’s got?”

“Comes right down to business, every time!” said Fulkerson, referring the characteristic to March with a delighted glance.  “Well, sir, if everything works right, and we get rain enough to fill up the springs, and it isn’t a grasshopper year, I expect to clear above all expenses something in the neighborhood of twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Humph!  And you are all going to work a year ­editor, manager, publisher, artists, writers, printers, and the rest of ’em ­to clear twenty-five thousand dollars? ­I made that much in half a day in Moffitt once.  I see it made in half a minute in Wall Street, sometimes.”  The old man presented this aspect of the case with a good-natured contempt, which included Fulkerson and his enthusiasm in an obvious liking.

His son suggested, “But when we make that money here, no one loses it.”

“Can you prove that?” His father turned sharply upon him.  “Whatever is won is lost.  It’s all a game; it don’t make any difference what you bet on.  Business is business, and a business man takes his risks with his eyes open.”

“Ah, but the glory!” Fulkerson insinuated with impudent persiflage.  “I hadn’t got to the glory yet, because it’s hard to estimate it; but put the glory at the lowest figure, Mr. Dryfoos, and add it to the twenty-five thousand, and you’ve got an annual income from ’Every Other Week’ of dollars enough to construct a silver railroad, double-track, from this office to the moon.  I don’t mention any of the sister planets because I like to keep within bounds.”

Dryfoos showed his lower teeth for pleasure in Fulkerson’s fooling, and said, “That’s what I like about you, Mr. Fulkerson ­you always keep within bounds.”

“Well, I ain’t a shrinking Boston violet, like March, here.  More sunflower in my style of diffidence; but I am modest, I don’t deny it,” said Fulkerson.  “And I do hate to have a thing overstated.”

“And the glory ­you do really think there’s something in the glory that pays?”

“Not a doubt of it!  I shouldn’t care for the paltry return in money,” said Fulkerson, with a burlesque of generous disdain, “if it wasn’t for the glory along with it.”

“And how should you feel about the glory, if there was no money along with it?”

“Well, sir, I’m happy to say we haven’t come to that yet.”

“Now, Conrad, here,” said the old man, with a sort of pathetic rancor, “would rather have the glory alone.  I believe he don’t even care much for your kind of glory, either, Mr. Fulkerson.”

Fulkerson ran his little eyes curiously over Conrad’s face and then March’s, as if searching for a trace there of something gone before which would enable him to reach Dryfoos’s whole meaning.  He apparently resolved to launch himself upon conjecture.  “Oh, well, we know how Conrad feels about the things of this world, anyway.  I should like to take ’em on the plane of another sphere, too, sometimes; but I noticed a good while ago that this was the world I was born into, and so I made up my mind that I would do pretty much what I saw the rest of the folks doing here below.  And I can’t see but what Conrad runs the thing on business principles in his department, and I guess you’ll find it so if you look into it.  I consider that we’re a whole team and big dog under the wagon with you to draw on for supplies, and March, here, at the head of the literary business, and Conrad in the counting-room, and me to do the heavy lying in the advertising part.  Oh, and Beaton, of course, in the art.  I ’most forgot Beaton ­Hamlet with Hamlet left out.”

Dryfoos looked across at his son.  “Wasn’t that the fellow’s name that was there last night?”

“Yes,” said Conrad.

The old man rose.  “Well, I reckon I got to be going.  You ready to go up-town, Conrad?”

“Well, not quite yet, father.”

The old man shook hands with March, and went downstairs, followed by his son.

Fulkerson remained.

“He didn’t jump at the chance you gave him to compliment us all round, Fulkerson,” said March, with a smile not wholly of pleasure.

Fulkerson asked, with as little joy in the grin he had on, “Didn’t he say anything to you before I came in?”

“Not a word.”

“Dogged if I know what to make of it,” sighed Fulkerson, “but I guess he’s been having a talk with Conrad that’s soured on him.  I reckon maybe he came back expecting to find that boy reconciled to the glory of this world, and Conrad’s showed himself just as set against it as ever.”

“It might have been that,” March admitted, pensively.  “I fancied something of the kind myself from words the old man let drop.”

Fulkerson made him explain, and then he said: 

“That’s it, then; and it’s all right.  Conrad ’ll come round in time; and all we’ve got to do is to have patience with the old man till he does.  I know he likes you.”  Fulkerson affirmed this only interrogatively, and looked so anxiously to March for corroboration that March laughed.

“He dissembled his love,” he said; but afterward, in describing to his wife his interview with Mr. Dryfoos, he was less amused with this fact.

When she saw that he was a little cast down by it, she began to encourage him.  “He’s just a common, ignorant man, and probably didn’t know how to express himself.  You may be perfectly sure that he’s delighted with the success of the magazine, and that he understands as well as you do that he owes it all to you.”

“Ah, I’m not so sure.  I don’t believe a man’s any better for having made money so easily and rapidly as Dryfoos has done, and I doubt if he’s any wiser.  I don’t know just the point he’s reached in his evolution from grub to beetle, but I do know that so far as it’s gone the process must have involved a bewildering change of ideals and criterions.  I guess he’s come to despise a great many things that he once respected, and that intellectual ability is among them ­what we call intellectual ability.  He must have undergone a moral deterioration, an atrophy of the generous instincts, and I don’t see why it shouldn’t have reached his mental make-up.  He has sharpened, but he has narrowed; his sagacity has turned into suspicion, his caution to meanness, his courage to ferocity.  That’s the way I philosophize a man of Dryfoos’s experience, and I am not very proud when I realize that such a man and his experience are the ideal and ambition of most Americans.  I rather think they came pretty near being mine, once.”

“No, dear, they never did,” his wife protested.

“Well, they’re not likely to be in the future.  The Dryfoos feature of ‘Every Other Week’ is thoroughly distasteful to me.”

“Why, but he hasn’t really got anything to do with it, has he, beyond furnishing the money?”

“That’s the impression that Fulkerson has allowed us to get.  But the man that holds the purse holds the reins.  He may let us guide the horse, but when he likes he can drive.  If we don’t like his driving, then we can get down.”

Mrs. March was less interested in this figure of speech than in the personal aspects involved.  “Then you think Mr. Fulkerson has deceived you?”

“Oh no!” said her husband, laughing.  “But I think he has deceived himself, perhaps.”

“How?” she pursued.

“He may have thought he was using Dryfoos, when Dryfoos was using him, and he may have supposed he was not afraid of him when he was very much so.  His courage hadn’t been put to the test, and courage is a matter of proof, like proficiency on the fiddle, you know:  you can’t tell whether you’ve got it till you try.”

“Nonsense!  Do you mean that he would ever sacrifice you to Mr. Dryfoos?”

“I hope he may not be tempted.  But I’d rather be taking the chances with Fulkerson alone than with Fulkerson and Dryfoos to back him.  Dryfoos seems, somehow, to take the poetry and the pleasure out of the thing.”

Mrs. March was a long time silent.  Then she began, “Well, my dear, I never wanted to come to New York ­”

“Neither did I,” March promptly put in.

“But now that we’re here,” she went on, “I’m not going to have you letting every little thing discourage you.  I don’t see what there was in Mr. Dryfoos’s manner to give you any anxiety.  He’s just a common, stupid, inarticulate country person, and he didn’t know how to express himself, as I said in the beginning, and that’s the reason he didn’t say anything.”

“Well, I don’t deny you’re right about it.”

“It’s dreadful,” his wife continued, “to be mixed up with such a man and his family, but I don’t believe he’ll ever meddle with your management, and, till he does, all you need do is to have as little to do with him as possible, and go quietly on your own way.”

“Oh, I shall go on quietly enough,” said March.  “I hope I sha’n’t begin going stealthily.”

“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. March, “just let me know when you’re tempted to do that.  If ever you sacrifice the smallest grain of your honesty or your self-respect to Mr. Dryfoos, or anybody else, I will simply renounce you.”

“In view of that I’m rather glad the management of ‘Every Other Week’ involves tastes and not convictions,” said March.