This was not because the editors were really proud of their townsman's success; rather it was because it made a neat little advertisement of their own particular foresight, such as it was.

In fact, in his own town (because he had refused to live in it!) Warrington was a lion of no small dimensions.
Warrington's novel (the only one he ever wrote) was known to few.

To tell the truth, the very critics that were now praising the dramatist had slashed the novelist cruelly.

And thereby hangs a tale.

A New York theatrical manager sent for Warrington one day and told him that he had read the book, and if the author would attempt a dramatic version, the manager would give it a fair chance.