Chapter XXVI - Page 2

type-writer
people, his mind busy with ways and means of finding a job.
Suddenly he was shocked back to himself.

"'We offer you forty dollars for all serial rights in your story,'"
Teresa slowly spelled out, "'provided you allow us to make the
alterations suggested.'"

"What magazine is that?" Martin shouted. "Here, give it to me!"

He could see to read, now, and he was unaware of the pain of the
action. It was the WHITE MOUSE that was offering him forty
dollars, and the story was "The Whirlpool," another of his early
horror stories. He read the letter through again and again. The
editor told him plainly that he had not handled the idea properly,
but that it was the idea they were buying because it was original.
If they could cut the story down one-third, they would take it and
send him forty dollars on receipt of his answer.

He called for pen and ink, and told the editor he could cut the
story down three-thirds if he wanted to, and to send the forty
dollars right along.

The letter despatched to the letter-box by Teresa, Martin lay back
and thought. It wasn't a lie, after all. The WHITE MOUSE paid on
acceptance. There were three thousand words in "The Whirlpool."
Cut down a third, there would be two thousand. At forty dollars
that would be two cents a word. Pay on acceptance and two cents a
word - the newspapers had told the truth. And he had thought the
WHITE MOUSE a third-rater! It was evident that he did not know the
magazines. He had deemed the TRANSCONTINENTAL a first-rater, and
it paid a cent for ten words. He had classed the WHITE MOUSE as of
no account, and it paid twenty times as much as the
TRANSCONTINENTAL and also had paid on acceptance.

Well, there was one thing certain: when he got well, he would not
go out looking for a job. There were more stories in his head as
good as "The Whirlpool," and at forty dollars apiece he could earn
far more than in any job or position. Just when he thought the
battle lost, it was won. He had proved for his career. The way
was clear. Beginning with the WHITE MOUSE he would add magazine
after magazine to his growing list of patrons. Hack-work could be
put aside. For that matter, it had been wasted time, for it had
not brought him a dollar. He would devote himself to work, good
work, and he would pour out the best that was in him. He wished
Ruth was there to share in his joy, and when he went over the
letters left lying on his bed, he found one from her. It was
sweetly reproachful, wondering what had kept him away for so
dreadful a length of time. He reread the letter adoringly,
dwelling over her handwriting, loving each stroke of her pen, and
in the end kissing her signature.

And when he answered, he told