Pettit brought me his returned manuscripts, and we looked them over together to find out why they were not accepted.  They seemed to me pretty fair stories, written in a good style, and ended, as they should, at the bottom of the last page.

They were well constructed and the events were marshalled in orderly and logical sequence.  But I thought I detected a lack of living substance—­it was much as if I gazed at a symmetrical array of presentable clamshells from which the succulent and vital inhabitants had been removed.  I intimated that the author might do well to get better acquainted with his theme.

“You sold a story last week,” said Pettit, “about a gun fight in an Arizona mining town in which the hero drew his Colt’s .45 and shot seven bandits as fast as they came in the door.  Now, if a six-shooter could—­”

“Oh, well,” said I, “that’s different.  Arizona is a long way from New York.  I could have a man stabbed with a lariat or chased by a pair of chaparreras if I wanted to, and it wouldn’t be noticed until the usual error-sharp from around McAdams Junction isolates the erratum and writes in to the papers about it.  But you are up against another proposition.  This thing they call love is as common around New York as it is in Sheboygan during the young onion season.  It may be mixed here with a little commercialism—­they read Byron, but they look up Bradstreet’s, too, while they’re among the B’s, and Brigham also if they have time—­but it’s pretty much the same old internal disturbance everywhere.  You can fool an editor with a fake picture of a cowboy mounting a pony with his left hand on the saddle horn, but you can’t put him up a tree with a love story.  So, you’ve got to fall in love and then write the real thing.”

Pettit did.  I never knew whether he was taking my advice or whether he fell an accidental victim.

There was a girl he had met at one of these studio contrivances—­a glorious, impudent, lucid, open-minded girl with hair the color of Culmbacher, and a good-natured way of despising you.  She was a New York girl.

Well (as the narrative style permits us to say infrequently), Pettit went to pieces.  All those pains, those lover’s doubts, those heart-burnings and tremors of which he had written so unconvincingly were his.  Talk about Shylock’s pound of flesh!  Twenty-five pounds Cupid got from Pettit.  Which is the usurer?

One night Pettit came to my room exalted.  Pale and haggard but exalted.  She had given him a jonquil.

“Old Hoss,” said he, with a new smile flickering around his mouth, “I believe I could write that story to-night—­the one, you know, that is to win out.  I can feel it.  I don’t know whether it will come out or not, but I can feel it.”

I pushed him out of my door.  “Go to your room and write it,” I ordered.  “Else I can see your finish.  I told you this must come first.  Write it to-night and put it under my door when it is done.  Put it under my door to-night when it is finished—­don’t keep it until to-morrow.”