"I wish I knew, Dad——"
I mailed it that night to a magazine. In the next two weeks my father's suspense was even deeper than my own, though he tried hard to joke about it, calling me "Pendennis." One day in his office chair he wheeled with a nervous sharpness, and I could feel his eyes fixed on the envelope which the postman had just thrown on my desk. God help me, it was heavy and long, it had my manuscript inside. Dismally I searched for a letter. Still I could feel those anxious eyes.
"Hold on!" I cried. "They've taken it! All they want me to do is to cut it down!"
"Then do it!" My radiant father snarled. "It ought to be cut to half its length! That's the way with beginners, a mass of details! Some day maybe you'll learn to write!"
I smiled happily back. He came suddenly over and gripped my hand.
"My boy, I'm glad, I'm very glad! I'm"—he cleared his throat and went back to his desk and tried to scowl over what he was doing.
"Dad."
"Huh?"
"They say they'll give me a hundred dollars. Pretty good for one month's work."
"Huh."