to glorify the leaders of forlorn hopes, the mad lovers, the giants that fought under stress and strain, amid terror and tragedy, making life crackle with the strength of their endeavor.  And yet the magazine short stories seemed intent on glorifying the Mr. Butlers, the sordid dollar-chasers, and the commonplace little love affairs of commonplace little men and women.  Was it because the editors of the magazines were commonplace? he demanded.  Or were they afraid of life, these writers and editors and readers?

But his chief trouble was that he did not know any editors or writers.  And not merely did he not know any writers, but he did not know anybody who had ever attempted to write.  There was nobody to tell him, to hint to him, to give him the least word of advice.  He began to doubt that editors were real men.  They seemed cogs in a machine.  That was what it was, a machine.  He poured his soul into stories, articles, and poems, and intrusted them to the machine.  He folded them just so, put the proper stamps inside the long envelope along with the manuscript, sealed the envelope, put more stamps outside, and dropped it into the mail-box.  It travelled across the continent, and after a certain lapse of time the postman returned him the manuscript in another long envelope, on the outside of which were the stamps he had enclosed.  There was no human editor at the other end, but a mere cunning arrangement of cogs that changed the manuscript from one envelope to another and stuck on the stamps.  It was like the slot machines wherein one dropped pennies, and, with a metallic whirl of machinery had delivered to him a stick of chewing-gum or a tablet of chocolate.  It depended upon which slot one dropped the penny in, whether he got chocolate or gum.  And so with the editorial machine.  One slot brought checks and the other brought rejection slips.  So far he had found only the latter slot.

It was the rejection slips that completed the horrible machinelikeness of the process.  These slips were printed in stereotyped forms and he had received hundreds of them—­as many as a dozen or more on each of his earlier manuscripts.  If he had received one line, one personal line, along with one rejection of all his rejections, he would have been cheered.  But not one editor had given that proof of existence.  And he could conclude only that there were no warm human men at the other end, only mere cogs, well oiled and running beautifully in the machine.

He was a good fighter, whole-souled and stubborn, and he would have been content to continue feeding the machine for years; but he was bleeding to death, and not years but weeks would determine the fight.  Each week his board bill brought him nearer destruction, while the postage on forty manuscripts bled him almost as severely.  He no longer bought books, and he economized in petty ways and sought to delay the inevitable end; though he did not know how to economize, and brought the end nearer by a week when he gave his sister Marian five dollars for a dress.