After the last line was written I hurried to the office of the Evening Journal, not trusting the stability of my impulse. A very imposing young man condescended to receive my contribution, and, instead of reading it immediately, threw it carelessly aside.
"That is a story for the 'Prize Contest,'" I whispered, falteringly.
"Is it? I thought it was an editorial on the relative positions of England and Russia in Manchuria. Anyway, don't let it worry you, it won't worry us. We haven't anything to do with that kind of stuff; it goes up to the editor of the women's page."
If that young man could have read my thoughts he would have been surprised to find how near he was to trouble. The story of my only blessing called "stuff" by that young whippersnapper!
Not until many months later did I understand that "stuff" meant anything and everything from an essay to a two-line joke.
I firmly believe that I was the first buyer of the Evening Journal on the following day. I turned to the women's page, but did not find my story. The following day brought the same experience, and I felt certain then that my "stuff" had found its way into the waste basket.
On the third day I saw the name, Owen Kildare, for the first time in print. I had won the prize and received my check. My elation knew no bounds, and when, after a few days, letters full of sympathy reached me, I was certain that I had not done wrong in writing that little story.
My thoughts found something new to think about. If this story, written under adverse circumstances and without any preparation, could win a prize, why could I not write other stories about the men and women I had known, and about the things and scenes I had seen and am still seeing? If, as in some of the stories which I had read in reputable magazines, untruths and deliberate misrepresentations can find a place in print, the truth about us—the people of the slums—should surely be also worthy of publication.
My mind was full of incidents witnessed by me through the many years I spent in slummery, and, without any difficulty, I wrote a story of the life I know best.
I sent the story to McClure's Magazine. It was accepted and partly paid for, but later returned to me because it was a trifle "too true." I sold it three days later to the Sunday Press, and the editor, Mr. William Muller, invited me to become a contributor. The invitation was gladly accepted, and short stories, editorials and special articles, all treating of my peculiar phase, have since then been written by me for that paper.