on as the first checks came in.

But only rejection slips came. First one, then two, then half a dozen.

"They don't even read them!" Trlk wailed.

"Of course they read them," I said. I showed him the sheets. They were
wrinkled from handling.

"The post office did that," he countered.

I showed him coffee spots on one page, cigarette burns on another.

"Well, maybe--" he said, but I don't think anything would have
convinced him.

When the last story came back, Trlk was so depressed, I felt sorrier
for him than I did for myself.

It was time. We had been working hard. I got out a bottle.

I poured a little lotion for Trlk.

The next afternoon, we tackled the problem in earnest. We went to the
library, got a book on writing and took it home. After reading it from
cover to cover, I said, "Trlk, I think I've found the trouble with
your stories."

"What is it?"

"You don't write about things you know, things that happened to you,
that you have observed." I showed him where it advised this in the
book.

His eyes brightened. We went right to work.

This time the stories glowed, but so did my cheeks. The narratives all
involved a man who lived in a hotel room. They recounted the seemingly
endless love affairs with his female visitors.

"Why, Trlk!" I exclaimed. "How come you know about things like this?"

* * * * *

He confessed he had lived with such a man, a freelance writer who
never made the grade with his writing, but who had plenty of girl
friends who paid the freight.

"He had a way with women," Trlk explained.

"He certainly had," I said, reading again the last page he had
dictated.

"He finally married an older woman with money. Then he gave up trying
to write."

"I don't blame him," I said wistfully.

"I had to find another writer. This time I decided to try a newspaper.
That's where I ran into you."

"Don't remind me."

Things got better after that. We began to get a few checks from
magazines. They were small checks, but they paid a few bills.

The big blow fell, however, when Mr. Aldenrood, the superintendent,
came roaring upstairs one day clutching a sheaf of papers.

"This stuff!" he screamed, waving the sheets before me. "The kids
found it in the waste paper. They're selling them a dime a sheet
around the neighborhood."

"They're worth more than that," I said, regretting that Trlk and I
hadn't burned our rough drafts.

"You're going to move," M