ttered threads of thought and the final generalizing upon all the data
with which his mind was burdened. To write such an article was the
conscious effort by which he freed his mind and made it ready for fresh
material and problems. It was in a way akin to that common habit of men
and women troubled by real or fancied grievances, who periodically and
volubly break their long-suffering silence and "have their say" till the
last word is said.

CHAPTER XXIV

The weeks passed. Martin ran out of money, and publishers' checks were
far away as ever. All his important manuscripts had come back and been
started out again, and his hack-work fared no better. His little kitchen
was no longer graced with a variety of foods. Caught in the pinch with a
part sack of rice and a few pounds of dried apricots, rice and apricots
was his menu three times a day for five days hand-running. Then he
startled to realize on his credit. The Portuguese grocer, to whom he had
hitherto paid cash, called a halt when Martin's bill reached the
magnificent total of three dollars and eighty-five cents.

"For you see," said the grocer, "you no catcha da work, I losa da mon'."

And Martin could reply nothing. There was no way of explaining. It was
not true business principle to allow credit to a strong-bodied young
fellow of the working-class who was too lazy to work.

"You catcha da job, I let you have mora da grub," the grocer assured
Martin. "No job, no grub. Thata da business." And then, to show that
it was purely business foresight and not prejudice, "Hava da drink on da
house--good friends justa da same."

So Martin drank, in his easy way, to show that he was good friends with
the house, and then went supperless to bed.

The fruit store, where Martin had bought his vegetables, was run by an
American whose business principles were so weak that he let Martin run a
bill of five dollars before stopping his credit. The baker stopped at
two dollars, and the butcher at four dollars. Martin added his debts and
found that he was possessed of a total credit in all the world of
fourteen dollars and eighty-five cents. He was up with his type-writer
rent, but he estimated that he could get two months' credit on that,
which would be eight dollars. When that occurred, he would have
exhausted all possible credit.

The last purchase from the fruit store had been a sack of potatoes, and
for a week he had potatoes, and nothing but potatoe