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 it'll be all right—I suppose you're rather a slow worker," he added doubtfully.

"Fourchette will do most of the writing," said Escargot. "She is very clever and thinks fast."

"I should like to meet her," said Mr. Doubleday. "We are not clever here, in fact we're only a bunch of farmers, but we work hard."

Escargot could see that what Mr. Doubleday said about being farmers was a joke, and he smiled pleasantly.

"I suppose you would pay us something for a book like that?" he said earnestly.

"I hope you don't expect to make a fortune out of it," said Mr. Doubleday. "Very few books do. This business is very uncertain."

Mr. Doubleday must have taken a fancy to Escargot, for they talked and talked. It grew dusk, and people began streaming out of the press on their way home, and the big windows shone with lights. The animals in the wagon were very anxious, imagining all sorts of ill fortune.

"Perhaps Escargot has got trodden on," said Donny.

"Perhaps he's got caught in one of the machines," said Fourchette.