He read the magazines about himself, and pored over portraits of himself published therein until he was unable to associate his identity with those portraits.  He was the fellow who had lived and thrilled and loved; who had been easy-going and tolerant of the frailties of life; who had served in the forecastle, wandered in strange lands, and led his gang in the old fighting days.  He was the fellow who had been stunned at first by the thousands of books in the free library, and who had afterward learned his way among them and mastered them; he was the fellow who had burned the midnight oil and bedded with a spur and written books himself.  But the one thing he was not was that colossal appetite that all the mob was bent upon feeding.

There were things, however, in the magazines that amused him.  All the magazines were claiming him.  Warren’s Monthly advertised to its subscribers that it was always on the quest after new writers, and that, among others, it had introduced Martin Eden to the reading public.  The White Mouse claimed him; so did The Northern Review and Mackintosh’s Magazine, until silenced by The Globe, which pointed triumphantly to its files where the mangled “Sea Lyrics” lay buried.  Youth and Age, which had come to life again after having escaped paying its bills, put in a prior claim, which nobody but farmers’ children ever read.  The Transcontinental made a dignified and convincing statement of how it first discovered Martin Eden, which was warmly disputed by The Hornet, with the exhibit of “The Peri and the Pearl.”  The modest claim of Singletree, Darnley & Co. was lost in the din.  Besides, that publishing firm did not own a magazine wherewith to make its claim less modest.

The newspapers calculated Martin’s royalties.  In some way the magnificent offers certain magazines had made him leaked out, and Oakland ministers called upon him in a friendly way, while professional begging letters began to clutter his mail.  But worse than all this were the women.  His photographs were published broadcast, and special writers exploited his strong, bronzed face, his scars, his heavy shoulders, his clear, quiet eyes, and the slight hollows in his cheeks like an ascetic’s.  At this last he remembered his wild youth and smiled.  Often, among the women he met, he would see now one, now another, looking at him, appraising him, selecting him.  He laughed to himself.  He remembered Brissenden’s warning and laughed again.  The women would never destroy him, that much was certain.  He had gone past that stage.

Once, walking with Lizzie toward night school, she caught a glance directed toward him by a well-gowned, handsome woman of the bourgeoisie.  The glance was a trifle too long, a shade too considerative.  Lizzie knew it for what it was, and her body tensed angrily.  Martin noticed, noticed the cause of it, told her how used he was becoming to it and that he did not care anyway.