The Press: Junket

Had a fourth or firth-rate author entered a certain railroad car that loaded up one day last week in the Pennsylvania Station, Manhattan, he would have thought that, verily, he had strayed into heaven. It was a car completely filled with potent publishers—about 30 of them.

There was a figure like an English country gentleman—Mr. George H. Doran. There was a firm-jawed, genial Virginian—John Macrae, president of E. P. Button & Co. There was a well-preserved gentleman of some 67 summers, upon whose watch-chain hung a small gold ivy leaf—Arthur Hawley Scribner, who...

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