re was no check. He read the letter,
skimming it line by line, dashing through the editor's praise of his
story to the meat of the letter, the statement why the check had not been
sent. He found no such statement, but he did find that which made him
suddenly wilt. The letter slid from his hand. His eyes went
lack-lustre, and he lay back on the pillow, pulling the blanket about him
and up to his chin.

Five dollars for "The Ring of Bells"--five dollars for five thousand
words! Instead of two cents a word, ten words for a cent! And the
editor had praised it, too. And he would receive the check when the
story was published. Then it was all poppycock, two cents a word for
minimum rate and payment upon acceptance. It was a lie, and it had led
him astray. He would never have attempted to write had he known that. He
would have gone to work--to work for Ruth. He went back to the day he
first attempted to write, and was appalled at the enormous waste of
time--and all for ten words for a cent. And the other high rewards of
writers, that he had read about, must be lies, too. His second-hand
ideas of authorship were wrong, for here was the proof of it.

The Transcontinental sold for twenty-five cents, and its dignified and
artistic cover proclaimed it as among the first-class magazines. It was
a staid, respectable magazine, and it had been published continuously
since long before he was born. Why, on the outside cover were printed
every month the words of one of the world's great writers, words
proclaiming the inspired mission of the Transcontinental by a star of
literature whose first coruscations had appeared inside those self-same
covers. And the high and lofty, heaven-inspired Transcontinental paid
five dollars for five thousand words! The great writer had recently died
in a foreign land--in dire poverty, Martin remembered, which was not to
be wondered at, considering the magnificent pay authors receive.

Well, he had taken the bait, the newspaper lies about writers and their
pay, and he had wasted two years over it. But he would disgorge the bait
now. Not another line would he ever write. He would do what Ruth wanted
him to do, what everybody wanted him to do--get a job. The thought of
going to work reminded him of Joe--Joe, tramping through the land of
nothing-to-do. Martin heaved a great sigh of envy. The reaction of
nineteen hours a day for many days was strong upon him. But then, Joe
was not in l