Of course this was good news.  There was no manuscript in that thin envelope, therefore it was an acceptance.  He knew the story in the hands of the Transcontinental.  It was “The Ring of Bells,” one of his horror stories, and it was an even five thousand words.  And, since first-class magazines always paid on acceptance, there was a check inside.  Two cents a word—­twenty dollars a thousand; the check must be a hundred dollars.  One hundred dollars!  As he tore the envelope open, every item of all his debts surged in his brain—­$3.85 to the grocer; butcher $4.00 flat; baker, $2.00; fruit store, $5.00; total, $14.85.  Then there was room rent, $2.50; another month in advance, $2.50; two months’ type-writer, $8.00; a month in advance, $4.00; total, $31.85.  And finally to be added, his pledges, plus interest, with the pawnbroker—­watch, $5.50; overcoat, $5.50; wheel, $7.75; suit of clothes, $5.50 (60 % interest, but what did it matter?)—­grand total, $56.10.  He saw, as if visible in the air before him, in illuminated figures, the whole sum, and the subtraction that followed and that gave a remainder of $43.90.  When he had squared every debt, redeemed every pledge, he would still have jingling in his pockets a princely $43.90.  And on top of that he would have a month’s rent paid in advance on the type-writer and on the room.

By this time he had drawn the single sheet of type-written letter out and spread it open.  There was no check.  He peered into the envelope, held it to the light, but could not trust his eyes, and in trembling haste tore the envelope apart.  There was no check.  He read the letter, skimming it line by line, dashing through the editor’s praise of his story to the meat of the letter, the statement why the check had not been sent.  He found no such statement, but he did find that which made him suddenly wilt.  The letter slid from his hand.  His eyes went lack-lustre, and he lay back on the pillow, pulling the blanket about him and up to his chin.

Five dollars for “The Ring of Bells”—­five dollars for five thousand words!  Instead of two cents a word, ten words for a cent!  And the editor had praised it, too.  And he would receive the check when the story was published.  Then it was all poppycock, two cents a word for minimum rate and payment upon acceptance.  It was a lie, and it had led him astray.  He would never have attempted to write had he known that.  He would have gone to work—­to work for Ruth.  He went back to the day he first attempted to write, and was appalled at the enormous waste of time—­and all for ten words for a cent.  And the other high rewards of writers, that he had read about, must be lies, too.  His second-hand ideas of authorship were wrong, for here was the proof of it.