story.
"It wasn't really my fault, your honour," he said. "I was drunk at the time."
2. Sleepy Time
In his office on the premises of Popgood and Grooly, publishers of the Book Beautiful, Madison Avenue, New York, Cyril Grooly, the firm's junior partner, was practising putts into a tooth glass and doing rather badly even for one with a twenty-four handicap, when Patricia Binstead, Mr. Popgood's secretary, entered, and dropping his putter he folded her in a close embrace. This was not because all American publishers are warmhearted impulsive men and she a very attractive girl, but because they had recently become betrothed. On his return from his summer vacation at Paradise Valley, due to begin this afternoon, they would step along to some convenient church and become man, if you can call someone with a twenty-four handicap a man, and wife.
“A social visit?” he asked, the embrace concluded. “Or business?”
"Business. Popgood had to go out to see a man about subsidiary rights, and Count Dracula has blown in. Well, when I say Count Dracula, I speak loosely. He just looks like him. His name is Professor Pepperidge Farmer, and he's come to sign his contract."
"He writes books?"
"He's written one. He calls it Hypnotism As A Device To Uncover The Unconscious Drives and Mechanism In An Effort To Analyse The Functions Involved Which Give Rise To Emotional Conflicts In The Waking State, but the title's going to be changed to Sleepy Time. Popgood thinks it's snappier."
"Much snappier."
"Shall I send him in?"
"Do so, queen of my soul."
"And Popgood says: ‘Be sure not to go above two hundred dollars for the advance.’" said Patricia, and a few moments later the visitor made his appearance.
It was an appearance, as Patricia had hinted, of a nature to chill the spine. Sinister was the adjective that automatically sprang to the lips of those who met Professor Pepperidge Farmer for the first time. His face was gaunt and lined and grim, and as his burning eyes bored into Cyril's the young publisher was conscious of a feeling of relief that this encounter was not taking place down a dark alley or in some lonely spot in the country. But a man used to mingling with American authors, few of whom look like anything on earth, is not readily intimidated and he greeted him with his customary easy courtesy.
"Come right in," he said. "You've caught me just in time. I'm off to Paradise Valley this afternoon."
"A golfing holiday?" said the Professor, eyeing the putter.
"Yes, I'm looking forward to getting some golf."
"How is your game?"
"Horrible," Cyril was obliged to confess. "Mine is a sad and peculiar case. I have the theory of golf at my fingertips, but once out in the middle I do nothing but foozle."
"You should keep your head down."
"So Tommy Armour tells me, but up it comes."
"That's Life."
"Or shall we say hell?"
"If you prefer it."
"It seems the mot juste. But now to business. Miss Binstead tells me you have come to sign your contract. I have it here. It all appears to be in order except that the amount of the advance has not been decided on."
"And what are your views on that?"
"I was thinking of a hundred dollars. You see," said Cyril, falling smoothly into his stride, "a book like yours always involves a serious risk for the publisher owing to the absence of the Sex Motif, which renders it impossible for him to put a nude female of impressive vital statistics on the jacket and no hope of getting banned in Boston. Add the growing cost of paper and the ever-increasing demands of printers, compositors, binders and...why are you waving your hands like that?"
"I have French blood in me. On the mother's side."
"Well, I wish you wouldn't. You're making me sleepy."
"Oh, am I? How very interesting. Yes, I can see that your eyes are closing. You are becoming drowsy. You are falling asleep…you are falling asleep...asleep...asleep...asleep..."
It was getting on for lunch time when Cyril
"It wasn't really my fault, your honour," he said. "I was drunk at the time."
2. Sleepy Time
In his office on the premises of Popgood and Grooly, publishers of the Book Beautiful, Madison Avenue, New York, Cyril Grooly, the firm's junior partner, was practising putts into a tooth glass and doing rather badly even for one with a twenty-four handicap, when Patricia Binstead, Mr. Popgood's secretary, entered, and dropping his putter he folded her in a close embrace. This was not because all American publishers are warmhearted impulsive men and she a very attractive girl, but because they had recently become betrothed. On his return from his summer vacation at Paradise Valley, due to begin this afternoon, they would step along to some convenient church and become man, if you can call someone with a twenty-four handicap a man, and wife.
“A social visit?” he asked, the embrace concluded. “Or business?”
"Business. Popgood had to go out to see a man about subsidiary rights, and Count Dracula has blown in. Well, when I say Count Dracula, I speak loosely. He just looks like him. His name is Professor Pepperidge Farmer, and he's come to sign his contract."
"He writes books?"
"He's written one. He calls it Hypnotism As A Device To Uncover The Unconscious Drives and Mechanism In An Effort To Analyse The Functions Involved Which Give Rise To Emotional Conflicts In The Waking State, but the title's going to be changed to Sleepy Time. Popgood thinks it's snappier."
"Much snappier."
"Shall I send him in?"
"Do so, queen of my soul."
"And Popgood says: ‘Be sure not to go above two hundred dollars for the advance.’" said Patricia, and a few moments later the visitor made his appearance.
It was an appearance, as Patricia had hinted, of a nature to chill the spine. Sinister was the adjective that automatically sprang to the lips of those who met Professor Pepperidge Farmer for the first time. His face was gaunt and lined and grim, and as his burning eyes bored into Cyril's the young publisher was conscious of a feeling of relief that this encounter was not taking place down a dark alley or in some lonely spot in the country. But a man used to mingling with American authors, few of whom look like anything on earth, is not readily intimidated and he greeted him with his customary easy courtesy.
"Come right in," he said. "You've caught me just in time. I'm off to Paradise Valley this afternoon."
"A golfing holiday?" said the Professor, eyeing the putter.
"Yes, I'm looking forward to getting some golf."
"How is your game?"
"Horrible," Cyril was obliged to confess. "Mine is a sad and peculiar case. I have the theory of golf at my fingertips, but once out in the middle I do nothing but foozle."
"You should keep your head down."
"So Tommy Armour tells me, but up it comes."
"That's Life."
"Or shall we say hell?"
"If you prefer it."
"It seems the mot juste. But now to business. Miss Binstead tells me you have come to sign your contract. I have it here. It all appears to be in order except that the amount of the advance has not been decided on."
"And what are your views on that?"
"I was thinking of a hundred dollars. You see," said Cyril, falling smoothly into his stride, "a book like yours always involves a serious risk for the publisher owing to the absence of the Sex Motif, which renders it impossible for him to put a nude female of impressive vital statistics on the jacket and no hope of getting banned in Boston. Add the growing cost of paper and the ever-increasing demands of printers, compositors, binders and...why are you waving your hands like that?"
"I have French blood in me. On the mother's side."
"Well, I wish you wouldn't. You're making me sleepy."
"Oh, am I? How very interesting. Yes, I can see that your eyes are closing. You are becoming drowsy. You are falling asleep…you are falling asleep...asleep...asleep...asleep..."
It was getting on for lunch time when Cyril
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