The reviewers praised it, the reading public--that
final court of appeal which makes or unmakes novels--took kindly to it,
and discussed and recommended it; and, most important of all, perhaps,
it sold and continued to sell. There was something in it, its humanity,
its simplicity, its clearly marked characters, which made a hit. Pearson
no longer needed to seek publishers; they sought him. His short stories
were bid for by the magazines, and his prices climbed and climbed.
He found himself suddenly planted in the middle of the highway to
prosperity, with a clear road ahead of him, provided he continued to do
his best.
In September Stephen gave up his work at the broker's office, spent the
weeks with his friends in Maine, and then returned to Yale. He gave up
the position on the Street with reluctance. He was sure he liked it
now, he declared. It was what he was fitted for, and he meant, more than
ever, to take it up permanently as soon as he was free. And his employer
told Captain Elisha that the youngster was bright, clever, and apt. "A
little conceited, needs taking down occasionally, but that is the only
trouble. He has been spoiled, I should imagine," he said.
"Yup," replied the captain, with emphasis; "your imagination's a good
one.
Pages:
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420