February 8th.
This is the fifth day. I am counting the days, I have been counting the very hours. He said he would be a week. And I—only think of it—I have but two dollars and sixty cents left!
Hurry up! Hurry up!
—And then I say with considerable scorn in my voice: “Haven't you learned enough about that manuscript yet? And about publishers yet?”
February 10th.
Just imagine! I went to see him to-day, and he stared at me. “Why, sure enough, Mr. Stirling!—It had slipped my mind entirely!”
I have learned to bear things. I asked him calmly to let me know as soon as possible. He said: “I am honestly so rushed that I do not know where to turn. But I will do the best I possibly can.”
I said—poor, pitiful cringing, is it not terrible?—that I'd be up his way again in three days, and did he think he could have it read by then. He said he was not sure, but that he'd try.
And so I went away. Now I have two dollars and twenty-three cents. I have to pay my rent to-morrow, and that will leave me a dollar and a half. I can make that do me seven or eight days—I have one or two things at home. I'll wait the three days—and then I'll have to set out in earnest to find something to do.