Chapter XXXIII - Page 2

"I - I am Martin Eden," Martin began the conversation. ("And I
want my five dollars," was what he would have liked to say.)

But this was his first editor, and under the circumstances he did
not desire to scare him too abruptly. To his surprise, Mr. Ford
leaped into the air with a "You don't say so!" and the next moment,
with both hands, was shaking Martin's hand effusively.

"Can't say how glad I am to see you, Mr. Eden. Often wondered what
you were like."

Here he held Martin off at arm's length and ran his beaming eyes
over Martin's second-best suit, which was also his worst suit, and
which was ragged and past repair, though the trousers showed the
careful crease he had put in with Maria's flat-irons.

"I confess, though, I conceived you to be a much older man than you
are. Your story, you know, showed such breadth, and vigor, such
maturity and depth of thought. A masterpiece, that story - I knew
it when I had read the first half-dozen lines. Let me tell you how
I first read it. But no; first let me introduce you to the staff."

Still talking, Mr. Ford led him into the general office, where he
introduced him to the associate editor, Mr. White, a slender, frail
little man whose hand seemed strangely cold, as if he were
suffering from a chill, and whose whiskers were sparse and silky.

"And Mr. Ends, Mr. Eden. Mr. Ends is our business manager, you
know."

Martin found himself shaking hands with a cranky-eyed, bald-headed
man, whose face looked youthful enough from what little could be
seen of it, for most of it was covered by a snow-white beard,
carefully trimmed - by his wife, who did it on Sundays, at which
times she also shaved the back of his neck.

The three men surrounded Martin, all talking admiringly and at
once, until it seemed to him that they were talking against time
for a wager.

"We often wondered why you didn't call," Mr. White was saying.

"I didn't have the carfare, and I live across the Bay," Martin
answered bluntly, with the idea of showing them his imperative need
for the money.

Surely, he thought to himself, my glad rags in themselves are
eloquent advertisement of my need. Time and again, whenever
opportunity offered, he hinted about the purpose of his business.
But his admirers' ears were deaf. They sang his praises, told him
what they had thought of his story at first sight, what they
subsequently thought, what their wives and families thought; but
not one hint did they breathe of intention to pay him for it.

"Did I tell you how I first read your story?" Mr. Ford said. "Of
course I didn't. I was coming west from New York, and when the
train stopped at Ogden, the train-boy on the new run brought aboard