"'We offer you forty dollars for all serial rights in your story,'"
Teresa slowly spelled out, "'provided you allow us to make the
alterations suggested.'"

"What magazine is that?" Martin shouted. "Here, give it to me!"

He could see to read, now, and he was unaware of the pain of the action.
It was the White Mouse that was offering him forty dollars, and the story
was "The Whirlpool," another of his early horror stories. He read the
letter through again and again. The editor told him plainly that he had
not handled the idea properly, but that it was the idea they were buying
because it was original. If they could cut the story down one-third,
they would take it and send him forty dollars on receipt of his answer.

He called for pen and ink, and told the editor he could cut the story
down three-thirds if he wanted to, and to send the forty dollars right
along.

The letter despatched to the letter-box by Teresa, Martin lay back and
thought. It wasn't a lie, after all. The White Mouse paid on
acceptance. There were three thousand words in "The Whirlpool." Cut
down a third, there would be two thousand. At forty dollars that would
be two cents a word. Pay on acceptance and two cents a word--the
newspapers had told the truth. And he had thought the White Mouse a
third-rater! It was evident that he did not know the magazines. He had
deemed the Transcontinental a first-rater, and it paid a cent for ten
words. He had classed the White Mouse as of no account, and it paid
twenty times as much as the Transcontinental and also had paid on
acceptance.

Well, there was one thing certain: when he got well, he would not go out
looking for a job. There were more stories in his head as good as "The
Whirlpool," and at forty dollars apiece he could earn far more than in
any job or position. Just when he thought the battle lost, it was won.
He had proved for his career. The way was clear. Beginning with the
White Mouse he would add magazine after magazine to his growing list of
patrons. Hack-work could be put aside. For that matter, it had been
wasted time, for it had not brought him a dollar. He would devote
himself to work, good work, and he would pour out the best that was in
him. He wished Ruth was there to share in his joy, and when he went over
the letters left lying on his bed, he found one from her. It was sweetly
reproachful, wondering what had kept him away for so dreadful a length of
time. He rerea