Chapter XLI

CHAPTER XLI

He slept heavily all night, and did not stir until aroused by the
postman on his morning round. Martin felt tired and passive, and
went through his letters aimlessly. One thin envelope, from a
robber magazine, contained for twenty-two dollars. He had been
dunning for it for a year and a half. He noted its amount
apathetically. The old-time thrill at receiving a publisher's
check was gone. Unlike his earlier checks, this one was not
pregnant with promise of great things to come. To him it was a
check for twenty-two dollars, that was all, and it would buy him
something to eat.

Another check was in the same mail, sent from a New York weekly in
payment for some humorous verse which had been accepted months
before. It was for ten dollars. An idea came to him, which he
calmly considered. He did not know what he was going to do, and he
felt in no hurry to do anything. In the meantime he must live.
Also he owed numerous debts. Would it not be a paying investment
to put stamps on the huge pile of manuscripts under the table and
start them on their travels again? One or two of them might be
accepted. That would help him to live. He decided on the
investment, and, after he had cashed the checks at the bank down in
Oakland, he bought ten dollars' worth of postage stamps. The
thought of going home to cook breakfast in his stuffy little room
was repulsive to him. For the first time he refused to consider
his debts. He knew that in his room he could manufacture a
substantial breakfast at a cost of from fifteen to twenty cents.
But, instead, he went into the Forum Cafe and ordered a breakfast
that cost two dollars. He tipped the waiter a quarter, and spent
fifty cents for a package of Egyptian cigarettes. It was the first
time he had smoked since Ruth had asked him to stop. But he could
see now no reason why he should not, and besides, he wanted to
smoke. And what did the money matter? For five cents he could
have bought a package of Durham and brown papers and rolled forty
cigarettes - but what of it? Money had no meaning to him now
except what it would immediately buy. He was chartless and
rudderless, and he had no port to make, while drifting involved the
least living, and it was living that hurt.

The days slipped along, and he slept eight hours regularly every
night. Though now, while waiting for more checks, he ate in the
Japanese restaurants where meals were served for ten cents, his
wasted body filled out, as did the hollows in his cheeks. He no
longer abused himself with short sleep, overwork, and overstudy.
He wrote nothing, and the books were closed. He walked much, out
in the hills, and loafed long hours in the quiet parks. He had no
friends nor acquaintances, nor