"I know. You can't. You're still too soaked in the point of view of your efficiency father-in-law."
"So you don't feel you can sign this?"
"No."
That day I sent my story to a small magazine in New England, which from the time of the Civil War had retained its traditions of breadth of view. Within a week the editor wrote that he would be glad to publish it. "Our modest honorarium will follow shortly," he said at the end. The modest honorarium did. Meanwhile I had sent him a sketch of Nora Ganey which I had written just after the strike. I received a letter equally kind, and another honorarium. I began to see a future of modest honoraria.
In the meantime, to meet our expenses at home, I had borrowed money and given my note. And the note would soon fall due. Those were far from pleasant days. On the one side Joe in his cell waiting to be tried for his life; on the other, Eleanore at home waiting for a new life to be born. By a lucky chance for me, Joe's trial was again postponed, so I could return to my own affairs. I had to have some money quick. I went back to my magazine editor and asked for a job in his office.
"I'm ready now to be sane," I said.
"Glad to hear it," he replied. "I'll give you a steady routine job where you can grind till you get yourself right."
"Till I get back where I was, you mean?"
"Yes, if you can," he answered.
I went for a walk that afternoon to think over the proposition he'd made.