And so, good-by to the book."
"In regard to your book," said Walkirk, "I feel it my duty to say to you
that there is no occasion for you to bid good-by to it."
"You are wrong there!" I exclaimed. "I shall never write it. I do not
want to write it."
"Nevertheless," said Walkirk, "the book will be written. I shall write
it. In fact I have written a great part of it already."
"What in the name of common sense do you mean?" I cried, staring at him
in astonishment.
"What I am going to say to you," replied Walkirk, "may displease you,
but I earnestly hope that you may eventually agree with me, that what I
have done is for the general good. You may remember that when you first
talked to me of your travels, you also handed me some of the manuscript
you had prepared for the opening chapters of your book and gave me an
outline of the projected plan of the work. Now as I have often told you,
I considered the material for a book of travels contained in your
experiences, as recited to me, as extremely fresh, novel and
entertaining, and would be bound to make what publishers call a 'hit' if
properly presented, but at the same time I am compelled to say that I
soon became convinced that there was no probability that you would
properly present your admirable subject matter to the reading world.
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