Peter turned sharply away, crossed the street and caught a south-bound bus. Wavering between irritation, elation and chagrin, he walked in and out among the twisted old streets of Greenwich Village. Four distinct times—and for no clear reason—he passed the dingy apartment building where Sue and Betty lived.
Later he found himself standing motionless on a curb by a battered lamp-post, peering through his large horn-rimmed eye-glasses at a bill-board across the street on which his name did not appear. He studied the twenty-four-sheet poster of a cut plug tobacco that now occupied the space. There was light enough in the street to read it by.
Suddenly he turned and looked to the right. Then he looked to the left. Fumbling for a pencil, he moved swiftly and resolutely across the street. Very small, down in the right-hand corner of the tobacco advertisement, he wrote his name—his pen name—“Eric Mann.”
Then, more nearly at peace with himself, he went to the moving pictures.
Entering the rooms later, he found the Worm settled, in pajamas as usual, with a book in the Morris chair. He also found a big envelope from Neuerman with the contract in it and a check for a thousand dollars, advanced against royalties.
It was a brown check. He fingered it for a moment, while his spirits recorded their highest mark for the day. Then, outwardly calm, he put it in an inside coat pocket and with a fine air of carelessness tossed the contract to the desk.
The Worm put down his book and studied Peter rather thoughtfully.
“Pete,” he finally said, “I've got a message for you, and I've been sitting here debating whether to deliver it or not.”
“Let's have it!” replied the Eric Mann shortly.
The Worm produced a folded envelope from the pocket of his pajamas and handed it ever. “I haven't been told what's in it,” he said.