"Then keep back the manuscript," counselled the black china cat, who had presided so long on that shelf in that room, that it must in witnessing, have sucked into its unaired soul all of the bickerings and heart-burnings of the two dwelling in Pacific Villa, and all of the things unsaid that hung thickly in the air long after the dining-room was empty of occupants. A nasty little cheap black cat, meagre and dusty.
"Then keep back the manuscript."
"Keep it back?"
"Well, why not?"
It did occasionally last a couple of months before the reader sent up his report of a book. Not often; Gareth was regular in the discharge of his duties. Moreover, every manuscript received at the office was of course duly notified with date and title. But it might easily happen that in this case the copy should be accidentally mislaid, mislaid for quite a length of time.
And in the meanwhile he would work; work feverishly at his own book. Finish it in six weeks. Finish it, and submit it to a publisher, any publisher, so only that it got in first.
Why not?
"It's—mean," said Gareth to the black china cat.
"I don't care one way or another," the latter retorted indifferently. "Go back to the old routine, day after day, and nothing ahead to look forward to. Dreams smashed. Career in atoms. Shoved on one side by 'Campbell's Young Men.' Just tolerated by Campbell himself——"
"Ah, no—I can't!" The man buried his head on his arms, while a great bitterness drained his soul. Forty years, and nothing to show for them—and now to have success snatched away when it dangled within grasping reach. "I can't!"