I put on my shoes, take my time with the
laces, sit a while quietly after I'm ready, and stare vacantly before me,
holding the letter in my hand. Then I get up and go.
The flickering ray of a gas lamp gleams up the
street. I make straight for the light, lean my parcel
against the lamp-post and open the letter. All
this with the utmost deliberation. A stream of
light, as it were, darts through my breast, and I hear
that I give a little cry--a meaningless sound of
joy. The letter was from the editor. My story
was accepted--had been set in type immediately,
straight off! A few slight alterations.... A
couple of errors in writing amended.... Worked
out with talent ... be printed tomorrow ...
half-a-sovereign.
I laughed and cried, took to jumping and running down the street, stopped,
slapped my thighs, swore loudly and solemnly into space at nothing in
particular. And time went.
All through the night until the bright dawn I "jodled" about the streets
and repeated--"Worked out with talent--therefore a little masterpiece--a
stroke of genius--and half-a-sovereign."
Part II
A few weeks later I was out one evening. Once more I had sat out in a
churchyard and worked at an article for one of the newspapers. But whilst
I was struggling with it eight o'clock struck, and darkness closed in, and
time for shutting the gates.
I was hungry--very hungry. The ten shillings had, worse luck, lasted all
too short.
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