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I gave you the address. Come out and see us when you have time." The train moved forward. One of the dotted brown ladies insisted on having windows raised, now that the rain beat against them. The porter came along with his mysterious wand and began to light the car. I glanced downward and saw the best-seller.
Not I al-lone perceive that, but Scipion also Castanado Dubroca. Mr. Chester, my dear sir, the pewblication of that book going to be heard roun' the worl'! Tha'z going produse an epoch, that book; yet same time a bes'-seller!" Mademoiselle beamed. "Does Mr. Chester think 'twill be that? A best-seller?" Chester couldn't prophesy that of any book. "They say not even a publisher can tell."
Pescud picked up the best-seller and hunted his page. "Listen at this," said he. "Trevelyan is chinning with the Princess Alwyna at the back end of the tulip-garden. This is how it goes: "'Say not so, dearest and sweetest of earth's fairest flowers. Would I aspire? You are a star set high above me in a royal heaven; I am only myself. Yet I am a man, and I have a heart to do and dare.
"Outside of Boswell and he was a fool I've never known anybody who thought he amounted to much." The Suffragist looked up. "Nelson had his Southey, Boswell had his Johnson, and Mr. Modern Best-seller may well profit by their example." And she smiled grimly. The Author's lip lifted. "Oh, but you couldn't do it!" he purred.
I just about threw a fit the first time I ever saw a Martian, and the Venerians are even worse in some ways they're so clammy and dead-looking but now I've got real friends on both planets. One thing, though, gives me the pip. I read a story a while ago the latest best-seller thing of Thornton's named 'Interstellar Slush' or some such tr...."
Was that the way she treated an invalid? ... He couldn't see why people go out in the rain, anyway. People are apt to take their deaths of cold. People may get pneumonia. It would serve people right almost.... One drop oh, confound the drops! The professor tried to read. The book he opened had been a famous novel, a best-seller, some five years ago. It had been thought "advanced."
Scots elders hummed it on their way to kirk; cannibals crooned it to their offspring in the jungles of Borneo; it was a best-seller among the Bolshevists. In the United States alone three million copies were disposed of.
"Is she?" Jim's question was indifferent, but from that instant his attention wandered. When he took the small, crushable silken partner into his arms for "the next after," a one-step, he was troubled by a sense of hurry, by that desire to make the most of his opportunity that torments the reader of a "best-seller" from the circulating library.
I live by the sweat of my pen. Originality never has, and never will make a best-seller." It was while Jones was airing these platitudes that Paliser entered the room. He approached the two men. Lennox at once got up, turned his back, marched away. A few days later, Jones, in reviewing the incident, wondered whether Lennox could, even then, have suspected.
Toddles pestered everybody for a job. He pestered Carleton, the super. He pestered Tommy Regan, the master mechanic. Every time that he saw anybody in authority Toddles spoke up for a job, he was in deadly earnest and got a grin. Toddles with a basket of unripe fruit and stale chocolates and his "best-seller" voice was one thing; but Toddles as anything else was just Toddles.
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