quite across the page at top,and narrowing from right to left as it descended.In the triangular space left blank the title of the periodical and the publisher's imprint were tastefully lettered so as to be partly covered by the background of color.
"It's like some of those Tartarin books of Daudet's,"said Beacon,looking at it with more interest than he suffered to be seen."But it's a book,not a magazine."He opened its pages of thick,mellow white paper,with uncut leaves,the first few pages experimentally printed in the type intended to be used,and illustrated with some sketches drawn into and over the text,for the sake of the effect.
"A Daniel--a Daniel come to judgment!Sit down,Dan'el,and take it easy."Fulkerson pushed a chair toward Beaton,who dropped into it.
"You're right,Dan'el ;it's a book,to all practical intents and purposes.And what we propose to do with the American public is to give it twenty-four books like this a year--a complete library--for the absurd sum of six dollars.We don't intend to sell 'em--it's no name for the transaction--but to give 'em.And what we want to get out of you--beg,borrow,buy,or steal from you is an opinion whether we shall make the American public this princely present in paper covers like this,or in some sort of flexible boards,so they can set them on the shelf and say no more about it.Now,Dan'el,come to judgment,as our respected friend Shylock remarked."Beacon had got done looking at the dummy,and he dropped it on the table before Fulkerson,who pushed it away,apparently to free himself from partiality."I don't know anything about the business side,and I can't tell about the effect of either style on the sales;but you'll spoil the whole character of the cover if you use anything thicker than that thickish paper.""All right;very good;first-rate.The ayes have it.Paper it is.Idon't mind telling you that we had decided for that paper before you came in.Mr.March wanted it,because he felt in his bones just the way you do about it,and Mr.Dryfoos wanted it,because he's the counting-room incarnate,and it's cheaper;and I 'wanted it,because I always like to go with the majority.Now what do you think of that little design itself?""The sketch?"Beaton pulled the book toward him again and looked at it again."Rather decorative.Drawing's not remarkable.Graceful;rather nice."He pushed the book away again,and Fulkerson pulled it to his aide of the table.
"Well,that's a piece of that amateur trash you despise so much.I went to a painter I know-by-the-way,he was guilty of suggesting you for this thing,but I told him I was ahead of him--and I got him to submit my idea to one of his class,and that's the result.Well,now,there ain't anything in this world that sells a book like a pretty cover,and we're going to have a pretty cover for 'Every Other Week'every time.We've cut loose from the old traditional quarto literary newspaper size,and we've cut loose from the old two-column big page magazine size;we're going to have a duodecimo page,clear black print,and paper that 'll make your mouth water;and we're going to have a fresh illustration for the cover of each number,and we ain't agoing to give the public any rest at all.Sometimes we're going to have a delicate little landscape like this,and sometimes we're going to have an indelicate little figure,or as much so as the law will allow."The young man leaning against the mantelpiece blushed a sort of protest.
March smiled and said,dryly,"Those are the numbers that Mr.Fulkerson is going to edit himself.""Exactly.And Mr.Beaton,here,is going to supply the floating females,gracefully airing themselves against a sunset or something of that kind."Beaton frowned in embarrassment,while Fulkerson went on philosophically;"It's astonishing how you fellows can keep it up at this stage of the proceedings;you can paint things that your harshest critic would be ashamed to describe accurately;you're as free as the theatre.But that's neither here nor there.What I'm after is the fact that we're going to have variety in our title-pages,and we are going to have novelty in the illustrations of the body of the book.March,here,if he had his own way,wouldn't have any illustrations at all.""Not because I don't like them,Mr.Beacon,"March interposed,"but because I like them too much.I find that I look at the pictures in an illustrated article,but I don't read the article very much,and I fancy that's the case with most other people.You've got to doing them so prettily that you take our eyes off the literature,if you don't take our minds off.""Like the society beauties on the stage:people go in for the beauty so much that they don't know what the play is.But the box-office gets there all the same,and that's what Mr.Dryfoos wants."Fulkerson looked up gayly at Mr.Dryfoos,who smiled deprecatingly.
"It was different,"March went on,"when the illustrations used to be bad.Then the text had some chance.""Old legitimate drama days,when ugliness and genius combined to storm the galleries,"said Fulkerson.
"We can still make them bad enough,"said Beaton,ignoring Fulkerson in his remark to March.
Fulkerson took the reply upon himself."Well,you needn't make 'em so bad as the old-style cuts;but you can make them unobtrusive,modestly retiring.We've got hold of a process something like that those French fellows gave Daudet thirty-five thousand dollars to write a novel to use with;kind of thing that begins at one side;or one corner,and spreads in a sort of dim religious style over the print till you can't tell which is which.Then we've got a notion that where the pictures don't behave quite so sociably,they can be dropped into the text,like a little casual remark,don't you know,or a comment that has some connection,or maybe none at all,with what's going on in the story.Something like this."Fulkerson took away one knee from the table long enough to open the drawer,and pull from it a book that he shoved toward Beacon.
