inseparable
companion--had gathered by the time they reached the top of the
Washington Street hill. Everything was wet with it. The asphalt was
like varnished ebony. Indistinct masses and huge dim shadows stood for
the houses on either side. From the eucalyptus trees and the palms the
water dripped like rain. Far off oceanward, the fog-horn was lowing
like a lost gigantic bull. The gray bulk of a policeman--the light
from the street lamp reflected in his star--loomed up on the corner as
they descended from the car.

* * * * * * * * * *

Condy had intended to call his diver's story "A Submarine Romance," but
Blix had disapproved.

"It's too 'Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea,'" she had said. "You
want something much more dignified. There is that about you, Condy,
you like to be too showy; you don't know when to stop. But you have
left off red-and-white scarfs, and I am very glad to see you wearing
white shirt-fronts instead of pink ones."

"Yes, yes, I thought it would be quieter," he had answered, as though
the idea had come from him. Blix allowed him to think so.

But "A Victory Over Death," as the story was finally called, was a
success. Condy was too much of a born story-teller not to know when he
had done something distinctly good. When the story came back from the
typewriter's, with the additional strength that print lends to fiction,
and he had read it over, he could not repress a sense of jubilation.
The story rang true.

"Bully, bully!" he muttered between his teeth as he finished the last
paragraph. "It's a corker! If it's rejected everywhere, it's an
out-of-sight yarn just the same."

And there Condy's enthusiasm in the matter began to dwindle. The fine
fire which had sustained him during the story's composition had died
out. He was satisfied with his work. He had written a good story, and
that was the end of it. No doubt he would send it East--to the
Centennial Company--to-morrow or the day after--some time that week.
To mail the manuscript meant quite half an hour's effort. He would
have to buy stamps for return postage; a letter would have to be
written, a large envelope procured, the accurate address ascertained.
For the moment his supplement work demanded his attention. He put off
sending the story from day to day. His interest in it had abated. And
for that matter he soon discovered he had other things to think of.

It had been easy to promis