So it went.  Wherever he happened to be—­at the Press Club, at the Redwood Club, at pink teas and literary gatherings—­always were remembered “The Ring of Bells” and “The Peri and the Pearl” when they were first published.  And always was Martin’s maddening and unuttered demand:  Why didn’t you feed me then?  It was work performed.  “The Ring of Bells” and “The Peri and the Pearl” are not changed one iota.  They were just as artistic, just as worth while, then as now.  But you are not feeding me for their sake, nor for the sake of anything else I have written.  You’re feeding me because it is the style of feeding just now, because the whole mob is crazy with the idea of feeding Martin Eden.

And often, at such times, he would abruptly see slouch in among the company a young hoodlum in square-cut coat and under a stiff-rim Stetson hat.  It happened to him at the Gallina Society in Oakland one afternoon.  As he rose from his chair and stepped forward across the platform, he saw stalk through the wide door at the rear of the great room the young hoodlum with the square-cut coat and stiff-rim hat.  Five hundred fashionably gowned women turned their heads, so intent and steadfast was Martin’s gaze, to see what he was seeing.  But they saw only the empty centre aisle.  He saw the young tough lurching down that aisle and wondered if he would remove the stiff-rim which never yet had he seen him without.  Straight down the aisle he came, and up the platform.  Martin could have wept over that youthful shade of himself, when he thought of all that lay before him.  Across the platform he swaggered, right up to Martin, and into the foreground of Martin’s consciousness disappeared.  The five hundred women applauded softly with gloved hands, seeking to encourage the bashful great man who was their guest.  And Martin shook the vision from his brain, smiled, and began to speak.

The Superintendent of Schools, good old man, stopped Martin on the street and remembered him, recalling seances in his office when Martin was expelled from school for fighting.

“I read your ‘Ring of Bells’ in one of the magazines quite a time ago,” he said.  “It was as good as Poe.  Splendid, I said at the time, splendid!”

Yes, and twice in the months that followed you passed me on the street and did not know me, Martin almost said aloud.  Each time I was hungry and heading for the pawnbroker.  Yet it was work performed.  You did not know me then.  Why do you know me now?

“I was remarking to my wife only the other day,” the other was saying, “wouldn’t it be a good idea to have you out to dinner some time?  And she quite agreed with me.  Yes, she quite agreed with me.”

“Dinner?” Martin said so sharply that it was almost a snarl.

“Why, yes, yes, dinner, you know—­just pot luck with us, with your old superintendent, you rascal,” he uttered nervously, poking Martin in an attempt at jocular fellowship.