He may have been on the bottom rung of the publishing ladder, but at least he was on the ladder.  At times he seemed to be getting by living off the figs and pecans his parents were sending from Fannin County, however he sensed he had his hands on his future and Harry never loosened his grip. 

But a letter to his parents dated May 3, 1908 depicts a young man grown weary beyond his mere 25 years.  The dream of making a living off his creative writing ability had faded along with his energy.

"Recently I have had so little leisure that I have not been up to attempting any independent writing," Harry told his parents.  "I am in something of a rush all the time.  The day goes by with a whiz and it's time to go to bed.  I think I was asleep every night by nine o'clock."

Now compare that with just how much life had changed by 1912. 

"It nearly breaks my heart to get out of bed before 10 o'clock and I can't get to bed until two in the morning," Steger told his close friend Booth Tarkington.  "All the which is apparently pitched in the key of complaint.  I have never had so bully a rest!"

Harry had hit his stride.

Steger's address had changed of late, as well.  His first months after arriving in New York had been spent at a spacious Englewood, New Jersey home, courtesy of an old friend from Oxford.  He then briefly occupied a sparse hall bedroom, which was all his $1.50 a day salary would permit.  Next, it would seem, Steger had a room at the Caledonia, the same hotel that O. Henry called home.  In 1910, Mr. and Mrs. Harry Peyton Steger had moved into their new home in Garden City, New York. Since Doubleday, Page & Company had a publishing plant in Garden City, this arrangement would have been ideal.  But in 1912, the Stegers relocated to a bungalow by the bay in Freeport, Long Island.  As playwright Montague Glass recalled, 20 or more writers would often converge for weekends that consisted of conversation, dinners, fishing parties and a little business worked in on the side.

"I suppose that, as a representative of my publisher, he must have had business dealings with me," Glass would write later, "but I do not recall them; for contracts were signed as mere incidents of jolly luncheons and dinners, all the details having been arranged at fishing parties and weekend visits to Harry's bungalow in Freeport.  His wide acquaintance with American writers grew of course out of his occupation as representative of a large publishing firm, but there was nothing of the publisher's tout about Harry. It is even conceived that he made unprofitable contracts for his principals, since his sympathies were always with the author."

Quite often, the Harry and Dorothy would lend out their bungalow during extended periods of travel, as this letter to Freeman Tilden indicates.  Harry was chiding Freeman for not being able to figure out how to operate the furnace, although Steger admitted to mechanical shortcomings of his own.

"Indeed, the difficulties that you people encountered in Freeport make us insufferably proud," Steger wrote, "for we have succeeded in heating the house.  The furnace eats right out of Dorothy's hand and my pocket.  The other night I had to go down and let the steam out of the chimney.  When I put coal in it, it either explodes or goes out.  The real object of this letter is to tell you all we love you all just as much as ever and unless you think it will be too chilly for you, you can have the house during the months of July and August."

To Montague Glass, Harry wrote, "I am about to invest in an ancient motorboat and shall want you to be at our launching.  Unless your recent social distinctions have made you put up the age limit of your associates.  However, you can bring the Howells if you want to."

A letter from England found its way to Harry in Austin, Texas where he was accumulating material for a project.

"Your letter to me was forwarded on to me in Texas where I was following the trails of O. Henry and collecting biographical material in the pursuance of my hobby," Harry wrote back to F.J. Foley, Esquire in Oxford, England.  "I decided not long ago to keep my name on the Balliol books (not as a debtor, but as a member of the college!) and so your thoughtful gossip of the college was very welcome.  Jimmy Palmer Bishop in India!  I wonder if the English bishop in India has anything to do with the Hesitant Hindoo?  Over my fireplace is a modern engraving, in the old style, of Balliol College.  Far be it from me to take issue between a man and wife, but if Mrs. Wiley can negotiate an American trip with four children, it is not for you to claim the feat is either ridiculous or impossible.  Why don't you come over here determined to take up your residence for a month or two at some pleasant place whither we Rhodes Scholars may proceed as pilgrims?"

Steger seemed bent on the acquisition of an impressive stable of writers of merit and, while it cost a pretty penny to entertain lavishly, a letter to James Francis Dwyer shows the literary agent's priorities.

Dear Dwyer:

I've handled the serial publication of several friends of mine and of many Doubleday authors.  The sales have gone into thousands of dollars and I've never taken a penny of commission; except once.  This was a failure and I've given up (before I formed it) the habit.  You are strengthening my job when you give me your eminently marketable stuff to handle.  This is your really material return for services.  As to the other thing, forget it.  If I really need the account (my need, I admit, was at least in part a ruse, for you seemed so determined to have me take that commission) I'll do as you suggest; but let's proceed on the basis that we stick.  I don't think we need to discuss the other thing any more, for we understand each other.  Can you, Mrs. Dwyer and Glory come out next Sunday for the day?  Fishing perhaps, food surely.

Yours sincerely,

Harry P. Steger

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