He made himself some coffee. A rush of genius to the head followed stimulation. He had a grand time, revelling with pen and pad and littering the floor with inked sheets unnumbered and still wet. His was a messy genius. His plot-logic held by the grace of God and a hair-line. Even the Leaning Tower of Pisa can be plumbed; and the lead dangled inside Achilles’ tendon when one held the string to the medulla of Annan’s stories.
He rose at his usual early hour, rather pallid, and parched by too many pipes.
When he left the house for down-town, Mrs. Sniffen reported Eris still sound asleep. So Annan went away to deposit seven thousand words with Coltfoot.
“Off the bat just like that,” he said, tossing the untidy bundle onto Coltfoot’s desk.
“You mean that you did this story last night after we left?” demanded Coltfoot.
“That’s what I do, Mike,—sometimes. And sometimes I’m two or three weeks on this sort of thing. I think I’ll go back and do another. I feel like it.”
“Probably,” remarked the other, “this is punk.”
“Probably not,” said Annan serenely. “Are you lunching?”
“Probably not if I read this bunk first. Is it really up to your worst level?”