ess manager his little account had been
overlooked.

Even if it isn't more than five dollars, Martin thought to himself, it
will buy enough beans and pea-soup to enable me to write half a dozen
like it, and possibly as good.

Back came a cool letter from the editor that at least elicited Martin's
admiration.

"We thank you," it ran, "for your excellent contribution. All of us in
the office enjoyed it immensely, and, as you see, it was given the place
of honor and immediate publication. We earnestly hope that you liked the
illustrations.

"On rereading your letter it seems to us that you are laboring under the
misapprehension that we pay for unsolicited manuscripts. This is not our
custom, and of course yours was unsolicited. We assumed, naturally, when
we received your story, that you understood the situation. We can only
deeply regret this unfortunate misunderstanding, and assure you of our
unfailing regard. Again, thanking you for your kind contribution, and
hoping to receive more from you in the near future, we remain, etc."

There was also a postscript to the effect that though The Billow carried
no free-list, it took great pleasure in sending him a complimentary
subscription for the ensuing year.

After that experience, Martin typed at the top of the first sheet of all
his manuscripts: "Submitted at your usual rate."

Some day, he consoled himself, they will be submitted at _my_ usual rate.

He discovered in himself, at this period, a passion for perfection, under
the sway of which he rewrote and polished "The Jostling Street," "The
Wine of Life," "Joy," the "Sea Lyrics," and others of his earlier work.
As of old, nineteen hours of labor a day was all too little to suit him.
He wrote prodigiously, and he read prodigiously, forgetting in his toil
the pangs caused by giving up his tobacco. Ruth's promised cure for the
habit, flamboyantly labelled, he stowed away in the most inaccessible
corner of his bureau. Especially during his stretches of famine he
suffered from lack of the weed; but no matter how often he mastered the
craving, it remained with him as strong as ever. He regarded it as the
biggest thing he had ever achieved. Ruth's point of view was that he was
doing no more than was right. She brought him the anti-tobacco remedy,
purchased out of her glove money, and in a few days forgot all about it.

His machine-made storiettes, though he hated them and derided them, were
successful. By me