The Transcontinental sold for twenty-five cents, and its dignified and artistic cover proclaimed it as among the first-class magazines.  It was a staid, respectable magazine, and it had been published continuously since long before he was born.  Why, on the outside cover were printed every month the words of one of the world’s great writers, words proclaiming the inspired mission of the Transcontinental by a star of literature whose first coruscations had appeared inside those self-same covers.  And the high and lofty, heaven-inspired Transcontinental paid five dollars for five thousand words!  The great writer had recently died in a foreign land—­in dire poverty, Martin remembered, which was not to be wondered at, considering the magnificent pay authors receive.

Well, he had taken the bait, the newspaper lies about writers and their pay, and he had wasted two years over it.  But he would disgorge the bait now.  Not another line would he ever write.  He would do what Ruth wanted him to do, what everybody wanted him to do—­get a job.  The thought of going to work reminded him of Joe—­Joe, tramping through the land of nothing-to-do.  Martin heaved a great sigh of envy.  The reaction of nineteen hours a day for many days was strong upon him.  But then, Joe was not in love, had none of the responsibilities of love, and he could afford to loaf through the land of nothing-to-do.  He, Martin, had something to work for, and go to work he would.  He would start out early next morning to hunt a job.  And he would let Ruth know, too, that he had mended his ways and was willing to go into her father’s office.

Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent, the market price for art.  The disappointment of it, the lie of it, the infamy of it, were uppermost in his thoughts; and under his closed eyelids, in fiery figures, burned the “$3.85” he owed the grocer.  He shivered, and was aware of an aching in his bones.  The small of his back ached especially.  His head ached, the top of it ached, the back of it ached, the brains inside of it ached and seemed to be swelling, while the ache over his brows was intolerable.  And beneath the brows, planted under his lids, was the merciless “$3.85.”  He opened his eyes to escape it, but the white light of the room seemed to sear the balls and forced him to close his eyes, when the “$3.85” confronted him again.

Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent—­that particular thought took up its residence in his brain, and he could no more escape it than he could the “$3.85” under his eyelids.  A change seemed to come over the latter, and he watched curiously, till “$2.00” burned in its stead.  Ah, he thought, that was the baker.  The next sum that appeared was “$2.50.”  It puzzled him, and he pondered it as if life and death hung on the solution.  He owed somebody two dollars and a half, that was certain, but who was it?  To find it was the task set him by an