d he, "you can never tell what a strange sort of a fellow
may pop up and do. Now, there was old Kincade's son Phil. Everybody
knew he was curious; everybody could see that, but they didn't know
how to place him. I told them not to place him. I told them there was
no telling where he might break out. His daddy said he was a fool. I
said 'wait.' Well, they waited, and what came? The boy discovered a
process for tanning coon hides without bark, and now look at him.
Worth ten thousand dollars if he's worth a cent."

A saddler gave his opinion: "I knew he had it in him. I haven't read
his article, but I'll bet it's good. Why, he's said things in my shop
that it would be worth anybody's while to remember. Just stepped in
and said them and went out like it wasn't no trouble at all. And look
what he's done for the paper here! Every time he touches her he makes
her flinch like a hoss-fly lightin' on a hoss. And when everybody was
making such a mouth about that fool marriage, I--well, I just kept my
mouth shut and didn't say a word."

Warren was the proudest man in town. He was so elated and so busy
talking about the story that he never found time to read it, except
to dip into it here and there, to find something to start him off on a
gallop of praise.

"Why didn't you tell me, so that I might have known what to expect?
Why did you nurse it so long?" Warren asked, as he and Lyman sat in
the office.

"Oh, I hadn't anything to tell, except of a probable prospect. And
nothing is more tiresome than to listen to a man's hopes."

"But you must have known that the story would be a success."

"No, I didn't."

"Well, maybe not. It was fortunate to drive center the first shot."

Lyman laughed sadly. "Warren," said he, nodding toward the magazine,
which lay upon the table, "I began to scatter seeds so long ago that I
hardly know when; and one has sprouted. I have been writing stories
for the magazines ever since I was a boy, and they were returned with
a printed 'thank you for--' and so forth. I had thought, as many young
writers think, that I must be deep and learned. I didn't know that one
half-hidden mood of nature, one odd trait of man, one little reminder
to the reader of something that had often flitted across his mind, was
of more value than the essence of a thousand books. I strove to climb
a hill where so many are constantly falling and rolling to the bottom.
At last I opened my eyes and shut my memory, and then I began t