Then he tried writing short stories, but like the book manuscript, they always came back. He concluded after a time that it was a waste of postage to send them around; that in truth they were not read—and again, that there was no fortune in writers' royalties always, anyhow.

He was possessed with a business turn of mind, and one day he met a man who told him that it was possible for him to have his book printed and be his own publisher. That sounded very good—anything sounded good in these dark days in the life of Jean Baptiste. This was a splendid idea. But it was some time before he was able to find the proper persons with whom to take this up. But, he finally secured the address of a company who would manufacture a book to exceed 300 pages for fifty cents per book. Although this was the most encouraging thing he had encountered in his literary effort, the price seemed very high in view of what he had been told. He had planned that it could be made for much less. However he decided to consider it.

Now Jean Baptiste had less means at hand than he had ever had in his life. Not a dollar did he possess—not even did he have a suit of clothes any more, and wore every day his corduroys. He owed the promoters of the old townsite of Dallas more than he was likely to pay very soon, but they still were his friends. But to get to Dallas, fifty miles away, was still another problem. He went to a bank in the little town where he had other friends from whom he had never asked credit. They loaned him what he asked for, $5.00. With this he went to Dallas. The senior member of the firm was in town—that is, senior in age but not in position. Jean Baptiste possessed great personality, and to be near one was to effect that one with it.

"I believe you could do alright with that book, Baptiste," this one said when Baptiste had told him regarding the company who would put it out for him.

"Yes, I am confident I can, too, Graydon," replied Baptiste. "But I am clean, dead broke. I can't go down there."

The other was silent for a moment as he stood wrapped in thought. Presently he said:

"How much do you have to have to go down there?"

"Oh, thirty-five or forty dollars."

"I'll let you have fifty."

"I'm ready at any minute," so saying, he went to a store across the street where he had friends, and there was dressed from head to foot, charging the clothes to his account. Two days later he walked into the office of the printing firm with which he had been in correspondence. They were rather surprised when they saw that he was an Ethiopian, but he soon put them at ease.