Still later came the grimmer thought that he might even be losing his sanity. He worried about that, too upset to finish the Aldhaferian story he had begun, for a week.
Then the mail brought his first travelogue.
Charlie Birdsall, the rural carrier, blew his horn at the gate and handed over the sealed manila packet along with a letter from Wesley's literary agent. Charlie was a friend from high-school days and a perennial bachelor who found Wesley's future appalling.
"Got a circular from some tourist bureau," Charlie said. "And a letter from that agent fellow in New York. Letter's got a check for forty dollars in it."
He shook his head darkly at Wesley's worn look. "Fellow, you better get squared away before your lid slips. You can't write that wild stuff of yours and stand off two women at the same time. When're you going to learn?"
Wesley hefted his packet wistfully, wanting the privacy of his room but reluctant to offend Charlie by rushing off.
"I have to write," he said. "And as for marrying—maybe Aunt Jessica is right. Maybe a man wasn't meant to live alone."
Charlie snorted. "How wrong can you get? Look, a bunch of us are having a poker sit and beers tonight at Landon's service station. Why not come down with me, Wes?"
Wesley begged off. "Work to do, Charlie. I haven't turned in much material lately and my agent is getting impatient."