A Literary Agent

By Owen Oliver

T was exactly three weeks before Christmas. I was thinking, with my chin on my hands, when Jane came into the dining-room. I am Molly Marchant, daughter of the famous author. He is not so famous as he ought to be. I have kept house since I was quite young. Now I am thirteen. Jane is our general. She is very much like other generals. She does everything wrong and makes me cross; but she means well.

"Wot yer worritin' about, miss?" she asked.

"I'm not worrying," I said; "I'm considering."

She shook her head. "About them 'ere Christmas presents?"

I nodded. "I meant to get a stationery case for father, and a pistol with a spring for Bob, and a box of mounted infantry for Tommy."

"So yer told me." I had discussed the matter with Jane to make it clear to myself. I did not wish her advice, of course; but I had to talk to some one. "They'd be a sov'rin, yer said, an' yer was goin' ter save it out of the 'ousekeepin'."

"I can't save it out of the housekeeping now," I stated, mournfully. She put the corner of her apron in her mouth, and bit it. That is her way of thinking. Judging by results, it is not a good way.

"W'y can't yer?"

"I had to make up the gas money."

She grunted, understandingly. We always have a little difficulty about the gas and water and rates.

"Father's stories haven't been selling so well lately."

"'E orter put in more lords an' ladies an' murders," Jane pronounced. "It's 'igh life wot people want nowadays."

"You don't know anything about it, Jane," I said, severely, "and your tastes are low." If people had better taste, father's stories would sell better. He has often told me so.

"I know wot I like, an' so does other people," she persisted. Jane is stubborn, and thinks she knows things when she doesn't. She represents the public, father says, when editors make him angry. Editors are very trying. They accept other people's things that aren't nearly so good as his.

"If you know so much," I suggested, "perhaps you can tell me how to get the sovereign."

She pulled at her apron, till I was afraid she would draw some teeth. "There was four an' tuppence of yer own, a fortnight since," she observed; "wot's become of it? Gas, too?"

"Two shillings of it," I admitted. I told father it belonged to the housekeeping, or he wouldn't have taken it.

"An' the rest?"

"The boys," I said, apologetically. "They aren't very old, and they beg so hard for pennies, poor little fellows!"

"More fool you!"

"If you cannot address me properly, Jane," I said, with dignity, "you can go down-stairs. For goodness' sake, leave your apron alone!"

She pulled it out, with a jerk. "I was thinkin' I could do with five shillin's less this month," she said, turning redder. She is naturally red.

"Nonsense!" I cried, in horror. "The idea!" She looked hurt, so I hastened to soothe her. As I have said, she means well. "It wouldn't be right, Jane, and I couldn't; but it is so good of you to want to do it for them."

"'Tain't for them—it's for you." Jane likes me. I don't know why. "Yer'd go without nothink yerself for them boys—the greedy little wretches!"

"Jane! How dare you!" They are the dearest little boys in the world; only, Jane is so stupid and doesn't understand how to manage them.

"They don't think of nothink but their own selves," she grumbled.

"How can you expect them to think, at their age?" Bob is eight, and Tommy six.

"Come to that, you ain't no hage yerself." I froze. "Though yer manage wonderful, as I was sayin' to Mrs. Green, w'en she come for the washin' this very mornin', and"

I thawed. "That reminds me," I interrupted. "I wanted to consult you about the washing." You can do what you like with Jane, if you pretend to take her advice. "Do you think we could do the ironing at home? It would save eighteen pence a week."

She pursed her lips. "We'd do 'em," she pronounced; "but whether the master 'ud wear 'em afterward—that's the questi'n. Never no ironer, I wasn't."

"I won't tell him about it," I suggested; "then he won't notice, perhaps."

Jane shook her head. "'E's got 'is proper senses," she said, "though 'e do write potery."

"But we'll try, won't we, Jane?"

She grinned. "Yer know 'ow to git over a body, miss," she said.

So we starched and ironed father's things; and, on Saturday, I put them carefully away in the wardrobe. On Sunday morning, I heard him stamping around the room and talking to himself. I fancied he was working out a plot, with a disinherited son or a villain in it. Then his door opened suddenly.

"Molly!" he shouted. "Molly! You must change this confounded washerwoman. The collars are rags—perfect rags; as for the shirts—she's starched nothing but the tails."

"I—I'm sorry, dad," I said. "I—I didn't think—that it—I'll change her." I didn't mean my voice to be choky, but it was. He noticed it directly, and ran down-stairs and put his arm around me. He is the nicest father that could be.

"You little brick!" he said. "It was only my fussiness, really. They aren't half bad; and the stiffness will soon wear out of them!"

But I could see that they wouldn't do; so I decided to try some other way of saving the sovereign.

People talk about saving money as if it were easy, but it isn't. Jane said the proper way was to look in the papers—especially the religious ones—for something. So I searched in the Evangelical Trumpeter, till I found this:

Of course, I know that people who write advertisements sometimes exaggerate a little. Still, I thought, if it was only a pound a week it would do very well. So I sent the stamps, with a letter explaining matters. The next day but one I had this answer:

The inclosed was a postal order for twenty shillings.

Jane bit her apron less fiercely than usual, when I showed her the answer.

"'E's a sharp 'un!" she said, admiringly. "An' a bit sorft too, or 'e'd never 'ave sent yer back the stamps."

"I think he's rather good," I said. "I wish—" I looked at the postal order, and sighed. If only there had been an excuse for keeping it!

"It'll buy yer presents fer yer," said Jane. That decided me. I know that what Jane proposes is almost certain to be wrong.

"It won't do anything of the sort," I said, decidedly. "I shall send it back this morning." I did not want to have time to change my mind; so I sat down, and wrote at once:

I ran to the pillar-box, and posted it. Then I began studying the advertisements that did not ask for stamps. There could be no harm, I thought, in answering them. This seemed the best:

I wasn't sure that I was attractive, but I thought I must be young enough; and, as I had not any income, he would easily see that I was the right sort of person to share with. So, I wrote, saying that, if he was really determined to give away part of his fortune, I was willing to take some of it. I explained that I did not wish more than £1, as that would just buy the presents. Also, I promised that I would pay it back, if he ever became poor, and I was rich. After several days, an answer came.

I could not understand why he offered to share his fortune, if he hadn't any to share; but, perhaps, he only wanted some one rich to marry him. Anyhow, I thought that it was no use answering advertisements any more.

I tried to save all I could, but could not save enough. The week before Christmas the amount was 2s. 3$1/undefined$d. The next week there were the Christmas things to buy, and father could only spare 10s. extra, which wasn't nearly enough for them. Boys want such a lot of cakes and things. I asked the baker and grocer and butcher if they would mind waiting for their money, but they said that they wouldn't wait. Indeed, they wanted me to pay off some of what was already owing, which was ridiculous. I thought of selling my brooch and bracelets; but father had told me that I must not.

"I don't believe that I shall be able to buy any presents at all," I said, miserably. "The boys will be disappointed." Jane had gone and told them, like the great stupid she is.

"Serve 'em right," she said, viciously. "The tiresome little monkeys, playin' with the water an' makin' sich a mess, an' runnin' up the clean steps w'en I jest done 'em, an'"

"Boys always do those things," I told her.

"An' git smacked, if they 'as their dues. If I was you, I'd"

"No, you wouldn't," I said; "if you'd promised your mother to be good to them, when she—she—" I had to turn away to the window. I never can bear to think about that. Jane did not answer, for once. She was very good all the afternoon, and made the boys some rock cakes, of her own accord.

"I was thinkin'," she said, when they had gone to bed, "as wot you want is advice."

"There's no one to advise me," I said. I couldn't well ask father about his own present, you see.

"There's them hanswers to correspondents," said Jane, "like the Home Jewel, wot calls 'erself 'Aunt Anne',' as tells yer orl about heverythink."

"Yes," I said; "I suppose she would know; though the pudding I made from her recipe wasn't very good. But, perhaps, that was because I left out all the things that were too expensive."

"She'll tell yer 'ow to make a sov'rin' easy," said Jane, confidently.

"There isn't time to get an answer before Christmas."

"W'y don't yer call an' see 'er? She's always writin' as 'ow she'd like to meet 'er 'dear young fren's.'"

"I'm half a mind to go this afternoon," I said. I went.

The offices were in a dirty back street in the City, up four flights of stairs. I knocked at the door for five minutes, and nobody answered. So I looked in. The outer room was small and untidy. The only furniture was a deal table and two office stools. A red-haired boy was sitting on one of them, trying to balance a ruler on his chin. I knew that he must be either very deaf or very rude. So I didn't know what to say.

"What do you want?" he asked, when the ruler fell.

"I want to see Aunt Anne."

"Never had one," he replied, picking up the ruler.

"She writes for your paper."

"Never heard of her."

"But I know she does."

"If you know, it's no use my arguing." He made another attempt to balance the ruler, and ignored me. This made me angry. I should have liked to knock the ruler off his chin, but I thought that it would not be quite ladylike to do so.

"Perhaps you will be so good as to tell the editor that I want to see her," I said, severely. He burst into a roar of laughter. "You are a very rude boy. I shall write and tell her about you."

He laughed all the more. "Oh, Lor'!" he cried; "you'll be the death of me!"

"I don't see anything to laugh at," I said.

He restrained another roar, and laid down the ruler on the table. "The old lady is very retiring," he said, struggling with a grin. "She won't let any one see her. Straight."

"I've come up to London on purpose," I protested. "It's very important." He shook his head. "Do ask her, please."

He stared hard at me. He did not seem a bad-natured boy. "I can't," he said, seriously. "It's as much as my place is worth." I felt the tears coming into my eyes. I think he guessed that I was disappointed.

"Look here, miss," he said, quite kindly; "can you tell me what it's about? Perhaps I could get her to send you a message." He dusted the other stool for me, and I sat down. I could see he was not really a bad sort of boy. So I told him all about it. When I had finished, he balanced the ruler on his hand.

"Never had a sister myself," he said, thoughtfully. I did not see what this had to do with the question. "If I ask him—I mean Aunt Anne—he—that is she—will only say 'no.'"

"You might ask her," I entreated.

He balanced the ruler again, while he considered. "Tell you what," he said, "I'll just show you in. Then he—I mean Aunt Anne—will have to see you. You might get over—er—her." He looked at me, critically. "You're that sort."

"You are kind," I said, gratefully.

He blushed. "Come along," he said. "It's Aunt Anne in here." He opened a door, and pushed me in.

"Young lady to see Aunt Anne," he said, and banged the door behind me.

I could not see anybody, at first, the room was so full of smoke—which struck me as very strange. Then I heard a deep voice say, "Confound the boy!" Which seemed stranger. Then I discovered a small, elderly gentleman, sitting at a table covered with proofs and papers, smoking a very large pipe, as small gentlemen generally do.

"I—I beg your pardon," I said; "I wanted to see Aunt Anne."

"Ah!" said the gentleman. "Um—er—yes. Won't you sit down?" He cleared some books off a chair, and I sat down. "Perhaps you will tell me what you want, and I will speak to her. I am the editor."

"Oh!" I drew my chair away, in horror.

He smiled. "I am a very harmless one," he assured me. "Don't you like editors?"

"No-o," I said; "not generally." He looked grieved. "You see," I explained, "they don't treat father properly."

"What a shame!" he said. "Your father is?"

"William Marchant—the great novelist," I said, proudly.

"Ah, yes! He has written several stories for us. Very nice stories—very nice indeed."

"Then," I said, "why don't you pay him more for them?"

He laughed. "Are you his literary agent?"

"Oh, no!" I said. Then he asked me some questions, and, at last, I told him what I wanted. He listened very attentively, playing with a paper-knife.

"I am sure Aunt Anne would like to help you," he said; "but I am afraid she can't. You see, money is very hard to make nowadays—even on a paper." He sighed. I noticed that his clothes weren't much newer than father's. "Aunt Anne gets paid after contributors like your father; and, if there isn't enough—" He shrugged his shoulders. "I doubt if she has a sovereign to spare."

"I don't want her to give it to me!" I said, in horror. He smiled.

"I'm afraid you are rather young to earn money—except from your father."

"Father gives me all he can," I assured him, "he does, really." He bowed in agreement. "But stories don't bring in much, you know; and they don't get paid for very quickly—not so quickly as we buy things. That's the difficulty."

"No," he said, sympathetically, "I know they don't. I wish we could pay him more, and pay it quicker, my dear; indeed, I do."

"I thought perhaps Aunt Anne could tell me how to earn something."

He shook his head. "I don't see any way. I wish I could—really."

"Don't you think, perhaps, Aunt Anne?"

"My dear," he said, "to tell you a secret, I am Aunt Anne, and every one else on the paper."

"Oh," I cried, "I see!" I suppose they couldn't pay her any more because they were poor. I rose to go, and he opened the door for me, as if I were grown up. Then he suddenly shut it again.

"Wait a minute," he cried, quickly. "Perhaps—would you like to earn ten shillings?"

I laughed. "Of course I should," I said.

"I was thinking—er—I want an illustration for the paper. If I were to sketch you, now"

"I don't think I'm worth ten shillings," I said, thoughtfully. "I don't think I am nice-looking, really; though people have said—but, of course, I didn't believe them."

"I am the best judge of that," he assured me. So I sat down again, and he began doing something on a piece of paper. After about three minutes, he said he had finished, and went to a cupboard, I suppose to get out the money.

It seemed very strange that he had done ten shillings' worth of drawing so quickly, and I rather wanted to see how nice I looked; that is, if I did look nice. So, when his back was turned, I just reached over, and picked up the paper. There was nothing on it but a few lines—not a proper picture at all.

"Oh!" I said. "You shouldn't! You were going to give me the money. You are very kind, but—" I began to cry, and I didn't wish him to see me. So, I ran right out of the room, through the outer place and down the stairs. The red-haired boy ran after me, and caught me on the last flight.

"What's he said to you?" he demanded, fiercely. "I'll go and have it out with him."

"No, no!" I cried. "He was very kind, indeed; and so are you. But I must go; please don't stop me." I ran away into the street. When I turned the corner, the red-haired boy was looking at me from the door. He is a nice, kind boy, I am sure.

When I arrived home, I pretended to be very cheerful; but I wasn't. It was Jane's evening out, luckily, so I didn't have to talk to her. After I had put the boys to bed, I sat down in the arm-chair by the fire, and cried. I know it is silly to cry; but sometimes you don't care if things are ever so silly.

I sobbed till I was nearly asleep. Father let himself in with his latch-key, without my hearing him. When he saw that I had been crying, he made a fuss over me. So I told him about the sovereign that I couldn't save. He was very kind. He always is. He made out that I do things ever so well. Of course, I know that I don't; but I like him to think so. Also, he said that he hoped to manage the presents for the boys. He hinted at something for me, but I would not hear of that. I know I must be very expensive to him.

We were still talking, when the postman knocked at the door. I was afraid it was only a "return," but it was not. It was a small letter, like those that bring acceptances and cheques.

We read it together, and I clapped my hands, when I saw that it was from the editor of the Highflyer. Father has often wished that they would take his things, because they pay so well. This is what the letter said:

Father read the letter three times, and each time he looked more smiling.

"Who the dickens does he mean by my literary agent?" he said. I held him by both sides of his coat, and made him look at me.

"He means—me!" I said.

Then I told him all about it, from beginning to end. He put his arm around me, and kept holding me tighter and tighter. When I had finished, he didn't say anything; he only looked at mother's picture over the mantelpiece. He was quiet for so long that I touched his arm, gently.

"What are you thinking about, daddy?" I asked. "Mother?" He nodded.

"And her little girl," he said, with a catch in his voice, "the best little girl in the world!"