The ten dollars for which Martin had sold “Treasure Hunters” to the Chicago newspaper did not come to hand.  The article had been published, as he had ascertained at the file in the Central Reading-room, but no word could he get from the editor.  His letters were ignored.  To satisfy himself that they had been received, he registered several of them.  It was nothing less than robbery, he concluded—­a cold-blooded steal; while he starved, he was pilfered of his merchandise, of his goods, the sale of which was the sole way of getting bread to eat.

Youth and Age was a weekly, and it had published two-thirds of his twenty-one-thousand-word serial when it went out of business.  With it went all hopes of getting his sixteen dollars.

To cap the situation, “The Pot,” which he looked upon as one of the best things he had written, was lost to him.  In despair, casting about frantically among the magazines, he had sent it to The Billow, a society weekly in San Francisco.  His chief reason for submitting it to that publication was that, having only to travel across the bay from Oakland, a quick decision could be reached.  Two weeks later he was overjoyed to see, in the latest number on the news-stand, his story printed in full, illustrated, and in the place of honor.  He went home with leaping pulse, wondering how much they would pay him for one of the best things he had done.  Also, the celerity with which it had been accepted and published was a pleasant thought to him.  That the editor had not informed him of the acceptance made the surprise more complete.  After waiting a week, two weeks, and half a week longer, desperation conquered diffidence, and he wrote to the editor of The Billow, suggesting that possibly through some negligence of the business manager his little account had been overlooked.

Even if it isn’t more than five dollars, Martin thought to himself, it will buy enough beans and pea-soup to enable me to write half a dozen like it, and possibly as good.

Back came a cool letter from the editor that at least elicited Martin’s admiration.

“We thank you,” it ran, “for your excellent contribution.  All of us in the office enjoyed it immensely, and, as you see, it was given the place of honor and immediate publication.  We earnestly hope that you liked the illustrations.

“On rereading your letter it seems to us that you are laboring under the misapprehension that we pay for unsolicited manuscripts.  This is not our custom, and of course yours was unsolicited.  We assumed, naturally, when we received your story, that you understood the situation.  We can only deeply regret this unfortunate misunderstanding, and assure you of our unfailing regard.  Again, thanking you for your kind contribution, and hoping to receive more from you in the near future, we remain, etc.”

There was also a postscript to the effect that though The Billow carried no free-list, it took great pleasure in sending him a complimentary subscription for the ensuing year.