promise.
Come on. We must be moving."

He said good-by to Hephzy and we walked together to the station. His
last words as we shook hands by the car steps were: "Remember--think.
But don't you dare think of anything else." My answer was a dubious
shake of the head. Then the train pulled out.

I believe that afternoon and evening to have been the "bluest" of all my
blue periods, and I had had some blue ones prior to Jim's visit. I was
dreadfully disappointed. Of course I should have realized that no advice
or "prescription" could help me. As Campbell had said, "It was up to
me;" I must help myself; but I had been trying to help myself for months
and I had not succeeded. I had--foolishly, I admit--relied upon him to
give me a new idea, a fresh inspiration, and he had not done it. I was
disappointed and more discouraged than ever.

My state of mind may seem ridiculous. Perhaps it was. I was in good
health, not very old--except in my feelings--and my stories, even the
"Black Brig," had not been failures, by any means. But I am sure that
every man or woman who writes, or paints, or does creative work of any
kind, will understand and sympathize with me. I had "gone stale," that
is the technical name for my disease, and to "go stale" is no joke. If
you doubt it ask the writer or painter of your acquaintance. Ask him if
he ever has felt that he could write or paint no more, and then ask
him how he liked the feeling. The fact that he has written or painted a
great deal since has no bearing on the matter. "Staleness" is purely a
mental ailment, and the confident assurance of would-be doctors that its
attacks are seldom fatal doesn't help the sufferer at the time. He knows
he is dead, and that is no better, then, than being dead in earnest.

I knew I was dead, so far as my writing was concerned, and the advice
to go away and bury myself in a strange country did not appeal to me. It
might be true that I was already buried in Bayport, but that was my
home cemetery, at all events. The more I thought of Jim Campbell's
prescription the less I felt like taking it.

However, I kept on with the thinking; I had promised to do that. On
Wednesday came a postcard from Jim, himself, demanding information.
"When and where are you going?" he wrote. "Wire answer." I did not wire
answer. I was not going anywhere.

I thrust the card into my pocket and, turning away from the frame of
letter boxes, faced Captain Cyrus Whittaker, who, like myself