e street again in another
moment. Then it occurred to him that he had forgotten to call at his
club that morning for his mail, as was his custom, on the way to the
office. He looked at his watch. It was early yet, and his club was
but two blocks' distance. He decided that he would get his letters at
the club, and read them on the way down to the wharf.

For Condy had joined a certain San Francisco club of artists,
journalists, musicians, and professional men that is one of the
institutions of the city, and, in fact, famous throughout the United
States. He was one of the younger members, but was popular and well
liked, and on more than one occasion had materially contributed to the
fun of the club's "low jinks."

In his box this morning he found one letter that he told himself he
must read upon the instant. It bore upon the envelope the name of a
New York publishing house to whom Condy had sent a collection of his
short stories about a month before. He took the letter into the "round
window" of the club, overlooking the street, and tore it open
excitedly. The fact that he had received a letter from the firm
without the return of his manuscript seemed a good omen. This was what
he read:

Conde Rivers, Esq., Bohemian Club, San Francisco, Cal.

DEAR SIR: We return to you by this mail the manuscript of your stories,
which we do not consider as available for publication at the present
moment. We would say, however, that we find in several of them
indications of a quite unusual order of merit. The best-selling book
just now is the short novel--say thirty thousand words--of action and
adventure. Judging from the stories of your collection, we suspect
that your talent lies in this direction, and we would suggest that you
write such a novel and submit the same to us.
Very respectfully,
THE CENTENNIAL CO.,
New York.

Condy shoved the letter into his pocket and collapsed limply into his
chair.

"What's the good of trying to do anything anyhow!" he muttered, looking
gloomily down into the street. "My level is just the hack-work of a
local Sunday supplement, and I am a fool to think of anything else."

His enthusiasm in the matter of the "City of Everett" was cold and dead
in a moment. He could see no possibilities in the subject whatever.
His "idea" of a few minutes previous seemed ridiculous and overwrought.
He would go back to the office and