mpulse. "I wonder though," he drifted on, "that is, if it is permissible
to tangle up a variety of thoughts, if it's any harder than it is to
attempt to pull an idea out of one's self by the roots and work it up
into readable form with the thermometer above ninety in the shade--I
wonder."

Elice Gleason was observing him now, peculiarly, understandingly.

"How is the book coming, anyway, Steve?" she asked directly.

"Which book?" smilingly.

"_The_ book, of course."

"They're all _the_ books--or were at one time." A trace, the first, of
irony crept into his voice. "To be specific, however, masterpiece number
one has just completed its eighteenth round trip East, and is taking a
deserved rest. Masterpiece number two is _en route_ somewhere between
here and New York, either coming or going, on its eleventh journey.
Number three has only five tallies to its credit--but hope springs
eternal. Number four, the baby, still adolescent, has temporarily halted
in its growth while I succor a needy benedict friend in distress. I
believe that covers the family."

The characterization was typically nonsensical; but, sympathetic, the
listener read between the sentences and understood.

"Isn't the new one coming well?" she asked low. "Tell me, Steve,
honest."

"Coming well, Elice! What a question to ask of probably America's
foremost living writer!" The speaker was still smiling. "What
reprehensible misgiving, suspicion even!" Sudden silence, wherein bit by
bit the smile faded. Silence continued until in its place came a new
expression, one that changed the boy's face absolutely, made it a man's
face--and not a young one at that.

"Coming well, Elice?" he repeated. "Honest, as you say, I don't know."
The hammock had become still, but the speaker did not notice, merely
lying there looking up into the sunshine and the blue unseeingly.
"Sometimes I think it is, and then again--if one could only know about
such things, know, not hope--of course every writer in his own soul
fancies--and his friends, for that matter, are just about as useful--"
The speaker drew himself together with a shrug. For an instant his jaw
locked decisively.

"I know I'm more or less irresponsible, as a rule, Elice," he analyzed
swiftly, "and probably create the impression that I'm even more
irresponsible than I am; but in this thing, at least, I'm serious. From
the bottom of my soul I want to write well, want to. As I said before,
sometimes I think I ca