of what he had just lived through--one moment of all the muck of
life through which he had waded.

He arose to his feet and confronted himself in the looking-glass.

"And so you arise from the mud, Martin Eden," he said solemnly. "And you
cleanse your eyes in a great brightness, and thrust your shoulders among
the stars, doing what all life has done, letting the 'ape and tiger die'
and wresting highest heritage from all powers that be."

He looked more closely at himself and laughed.

"A bit of hysteria and melodrama, eh?" he queried. "Well, never mind.
You licked Cheese-Face, and you'll lick the editors if it takes twice
eleven years to do it in. You can't stop here. You've got to go on.
It's to a finish, you know."

CHAPTER XVI

The alarm-clock went off, jerking Martin out of sleep with a suddenness
that would have given headache to one with less splendid constitution.
Though he slept soundly, he awoke instantly, like a cat, and he awoke
eagerly, glad that the five hours of unconsciousness were gone. He hated
the oblivion of sleep. There was too much to do, too much of life to
live. He grudged every moment of life sleep robbed him of, and before
the clock had ceased its clattering he was head and ears in the washbasin
and thrilling to the cold bite of the water.

But he did not follow his regular programme. There was no unfinished
story waiting his hand, no new story demanding articulation. He had
studied late, and it was nearly time for breakfast. He tried to read a
chapter in Fiske, but his brain was restless and he closed the book. To-
day witnessed the beginning of the new battle, wherein for some time
there would be no writing. He was aware of a sadness akin to that with
which one leaves home and family. He looked at the manuscripts in the
corner. That was it. He was going away from them, his pitiful,
dishonored children that were welcome nowhere. He went over and began to
rummage among them, reading snatches here and there, his favorite
portions. "The Pot" he honored with reading aloud, as he did
"Adventure." "Joy," his latest-born, completed the day before and tossed
into the corner for lack of stamps, won his keenest approbation.

"I can't understand," he murmured. "Or maybe it's the editors who can't
understand. There's nothing wrong with that. They publish worse every
month. Everything they publish is worse--nearly everything, anyway."

After breakfast he put the type-w