“This is a crazy article. You don’t have to use it.”
Coltfoot used it. A few people laughed, a few protested, the Middle West was angry, and the owners of the Planet told Coltfoot to be more careful.
But the majority of New Yorkers liked the article, and grinned, having been overfed on “our fair city” stuff.
Besides, the tendency of the times was toward the unpleasant.
Stilton and caviar are acquired tastes.
That night Annan made himself some black coffee and began his first novel, “The Cloud.”
About three o’clock in the morning he tore up what he had written and smoked another pipe.
“Oh, the rotten start!” he yawned, conscious that inwardly he was all a-tremble with creative power,—like a boiler that taxes its safety valve.
The young vigour in him laughed its menace. All the insolent certainty of youth was in his gesture as he flung the torn manuscript into the fireplace.