THE STORY OF A "REMAINDER."

Oamaru Mail, Volume XXXI, Issue 8835, 15 July 1905, Page 2 (Supplement)

THE STORY OF A "REMAINDER."

(By C. J. Hamilton.)

Yes, lam a "remainder." Everyone knows what that is—the dregs of the publishing season, books that haven't sold, and aren't likely to sell. It isn't at all pleasant to,be "-a remainder, it's like being a tramp, or being out of work, for you are tossed here and pushed there, nobody wants you, and you are only in the way. And I really was very pretty, witlTa pale green binding, just showing through the thinnest tissue paper, and on the outside cover was a beautiful white lily. On the front page was the title: — A BROKEN LILY, By Evelyn Enderby.

Sounds well, doesn't it? Yet all the same, no one would buy me, and there I was, lying with a lot of other remainders, on the dusty floor of a big warehouse in the city. The shutters were closed, and it was dark and cold and very dreary. Sometimes the door opened and men would look in, or perhaps hold one or two of us to the chink 'of the window shutter which let in just a streak of light. And then they banged us down on the floor again and went away. But one day two big men who smelt of the sea walked in and turned on the gasjet that was against the wall. They looked as if they meant business, and so they did.

"How much for the lot?" asked one of them to oui head clerk, who was showing them round, and now stood behind them with a notebook and pencil in his hand. "How much will you give?" "Say sevenpence all round. Not more." "Sevepence for these six shilling novels, uncut, all in prime condition, as good as new, first-class binding, excellent print and paper!"

"Can't help it. Won't offer more. Why, I've often given sixpence for better books than these. Just look at this," taking me up in his breasy hand, "who the dickens is this by? Evelyn Enderby, eh? Never heard of her. We like books by wellknown authors. It's names sell, we all know that." "Give beginners a bit of a chance. They have to be unknown before they get well known. Evelyn Enderby might come to the front yet." "Not likely!" flinging me back on the heap. "What we want are books for the big lines, smart, racy, up-to-date stuff to read on a long voyage—sporting novels, and the like of that." "Well, you've got lots of 'em there," said the clerk, with a wave of his hand. "Novels by Blake-White—you can't say he isn't well known—racing stories by Wat Worsley—detective make up. You're gettin' a good bargain, Mr Wilkins, you are indeed." "Well, I s'pose I'll have to close," said the taller of the two men, taking out a leather purse. "You'll have them delivered in good time. Mind, the Orania starts | for Adelaide to-morow morning at six, I sharp." "All right! They'll be in good time, never fear." In an hour afterwards we were bundled up from the dusty floor and crammed into a big chest as tight as herrings in a barrel. It was a painful position for a book, such as I was, and I found mvself in very close quarters with a vulgar story about buccaneers and pirates; but ont has to encounter these things in bookland, and I tried to make the best of it. If the dainty young lady who wrote me could only have seen the sad fate to which I was reduced—sold for sevenpence—and treated like the dirt in the street! The manuscript was with me at the printer's for a good fortnight, and he told me in I strict confidence that when Evelyn Ender- | by was writing, she was sometimes quite in a tremble, and her hot tears often dropped on his pages. And it was all for nothing—all! By the thumping and thudding I guessed we were off, out on thewide ocean. Soon the chest was wrenched open, and we were all taken out and ranged in rows on a bookcase between the saloon and the smoking-room. It certainly was most annoying to see my buccaneering neighbor taken down from the shelf over and over again, while I was left with my leaves still uncut. And a low story about a mother-in-law, that was next but one to me, I heard a fat lady in a red gown splitting her sides over that. People like better to laugh than to cry, and I was of the melting sort —"too sentimental by far," as some one remarked when he put me back. Would anyone ever read met I

began to think not, when one terribly wet day, as the wind was howling and tiie waves tossing, a tall man with a tawny beard and hair to match, came out oi the smoking room. He gathered up about a i:j.:t a qozoii of us in his arms and curried us back with him, smoking all the time. 1 was on the top, and he opened me i'.ist.

"Hullo !" he said, when he saw the name, "Evelyn Enderby! Never knew she had written anything. I say, Fred," to another man who was lolling on the sofa, "only think, Evelyn Enderby has written a book. Here it is!"

"I see," said the other. "Expect it's rot. Nice little girl, though—stunning pair of brown eyes; you made an awful ass of yourself about her, old man. Somehow, these parsons' daughters always take to writing. Here, let me look at the wretched thing." "No, I won't. I've got it, and I'm going to read it."

He didn't put me down until ho had finished every word. And then his lips were pressed together, and there was a strange light in his eyes. He dragged his chair over to the writing-table, and wrote for and signed the lettet: "Your loving, repentant Philip." He dropped the letter into the post-box, and I heard no more. A few days afterwards he Drought a man with gilt buttons on his coat over to me, and said, "Here, I want to buy this book." "Impossible, sir, they aTe all the property of the Steamship Company. See, here's the mark."

"I know, but I want to buy this one all the same. You can easdy get another. Come, I will give you your own price for it. I want particularly to 'have it; I must have it."

"Very well, sir, I"ll go and inquire." In five minutes back he came.

"Yes, there is no objection to your having it, sir, but the price will be five shillings." "All right, there's your money." He counted it out, and took me off and packed me safely in a corner of his portmanteau along with a Bible wrapped in brown paper. It Was rather consoling after being sold for sevenpence, to be re-bought for nearly ten times as much. But that's the way in book land, one never knows how things may turn out. When I next saw the light of day, I was in a wooden shanty with great trees all round, and a clearing where sheep were feeding. The 6Un was very hot, and altogether things looked cheerful. My new owner had put up some book-shelves against the wall, near his .bed, and I was in one corner. On the other side were a lot of sporting novels, smelling detestably of tobacco. I did not take any notice of them, they were so dirty and common, and they actually jeered at me, and called me "Rosa Matilda." They liad evidently never been in the society of a re:tl ladylike book before. They were only sixpenny editions, and had not five shillings been paid for me ? I was getting quite used to my new quarters—to the eucalyptus trees, and r-ho sheep feeding, and the dogs barking—when one summer day, as my master was comfortably asleep in his armchair, a light step came to the door. A young lady was standing there in a dark blue dress and a shady hat with poppies in it, and —■ yes, she had brown eyes ! No mistake about that. She didn't speak for a minute —she was shy and frightened—then she looked in and said, very soft and low, "Philip, are you there!" No man ever started up quicker than he did. In a minute he was at the door, holding her hands and looking into her face. "Evelyn, Evelyn, have you really come, after all?"

"Yes, when I got your letter—-your dear letter—how could I help coming?" He took her in his arais, and they said nothing, only I think I heard a little sob.

About an hour afterwards, lie brought her up to the bookshelf AvheT© I was. "Evelyn, do you see?" "Yes, yes, you told me in your letter. . . "That it made things clear between us; so it did. I thought you had forgotten me till I read that chapter. 'How the broken lily lifted up her head,' then I knew you hadn't." "Oh, Philip, you read that chapter!" "Over and over again ; I think it is jußt beautiful."

"You dear! How I love you for saying that. And you bought the book?" "Yes, don't you see I have?" "You really bought it ; it wasn't a review copy, or anything like thai!" "No, I really bought it." "You did—you did?" "Yes, I bought it and paid for it too—paid five shillings." "You darling ! you darling } The horrid publisher 6aid no one had bought it, and now I know he was wrong. Oh, Philip, Philip!"