He had discovered, in the course of his reading, two schools of fiction.  One treated of man as a god, ignoring his earthly origin; the other treated of man as a clod, ignoring his heaven-sent dreams and divine possibilities.  Both the god and the clod schools erred, in Martin’s estimation, and erred through too great singleness of sight and purpose.  There was a compromise that approximated the truth, though it flattered not the school of god, while it challenged the brute-savageness of the school of clod.  It was his story, “Adventure,” which had dragged with Ruth, that Martin believed had achieved his ideal of the true in fiction; and it was in an essay, “God and Clod,” that he had expressed his views on the whole general subject.

But “Adventure,” and all that he deemed his best work, still went begging among the editors.  His early work counted for nothing in his eyes except for the money it brought, and his horror stories, two of which he had sold, he did not consider high work nor his best work.  To him they were frankly imaginative and fantastic, though invested with all the glamour of the real, wherein lay their power.  This investiture of the grotesque and impossible with reality, he looked upon as a trick—­a skilful trick at best.  Great literature could not reside in such a field.  Their artistry was high, but he denied the worthwhileness of artistry when divorced from humanness.  The trick had been to fling over the face of his artistry a mask of humanness, and this he had done in the half-dozen or so stories of the horror brand he had written before he emerged upon the high peaks of “Adventure,” “Joy,” “The Pot,” and “The Wine of Life.”

The three dollars he received for the triolets he used to eke out a precarious existence against the arrival of the White Mouse check.  He cashed the first check with the suspicious Portuguese grocer, paying a dollar on account and dividing the remaining two dollars between the baker and the fruit store.  Martin was not yet rich enough to afford meat, and he was on slim allowance when the White Mouse check arrived.  He was divided on the cashing of it.  He had never been in a bank in his life, much less been in one on business, and he had a naive and childlike desire to walk into one of the big banks down in Oakland and fling down his indorsed check for forty dollars.  On the other hand, practical common sense ruled that he should cash it with his grocer and thereby make an impression that would later result in an increase of credit.  Reluctantly Martin yielded to the claims of the grocer, paying his bill with him in full, and receiving in change a pocketful of jingling coin.  Also, he paid the other tradesmen in full, redeemed his suit and his bicycle, paid one month’s rent on the type-writer, and paid Maria the overdue month for his room and a month in advance.  This left him in his pocket, for emergencies, a balance of nearly three dollars.