tale,” and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood, editor of the Weekly Volcano . She had never read Sartor Resartus , but she had a womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over many than the worth of character or the magic of manners. So she dressed herself in her best, and, trying to persuade herself that she was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of cigar-smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their heels rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of them took the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by this reception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much embarrassment—
“Excuse me, I was looking for the Weekly Volcano office; I wished to see Mr. Dashwood.”
Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman, and, carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced, with a nod, and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep. Feeling that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo produced her manuscript, and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence, blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the occasion.
“A friend of mine desired me to offer—a story—just as an experiment—would like your opinion—be glad to write more if this suits.”
While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript, and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers, and casting critical glances up and down the neat pages.
“Not a first attempt, I take it?” observing that the pages were numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon—sure sign of a novice.
“No, sir; she has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in the Blarneystone Banner .”