o
progress. But not without the most diligent work. This story, (again
nodding toward the magazine) was written six times at least."

"Why, you have made it look as easy as falling off a log," said
Warren.

"Yes; it was work that made it look easy. There are two sorts of
successful stories; one that makes the reader marvel at its art; the
other one that makes the reader believe that almost anybody could have
written it. The first appeals to the stylist and may soon die. The
other may live to be a classic."

"Go ahead. That sort of talk catches me. It seems now that I have
thought it many times, but just didn't happen to say it. Have you got
anything in hand now?"

"Yes; I might as well let it all out now. I have a book accepted by a
first-class house, and I have a long story which I may submit to a
magazine to be published as a serial in the event of the success of
the book."

"You are all right. I have often told you that. Why, some of the
things you have written for this paper would do to go into the school
readers along with the dialogue between some fellow--forget his name
now--and Humphrey Dobbins; and that barber who lived in the City of
Bath. Recollect? Let's see, 'Respect for the Sabbath Rewarded.' Don't
you know now? 'And say,' the stranger says to him, 'I have glorious
news for you. Your uncle is dead,' and so on. But it used to tickle me
to think the fellow could find any glory in the news of his uncle's
death, but I guess he did."

"Yes, I remember. He was the barber that wouldn't shave on Sunday. And
as a reward his uncle died and left him a lot of money. And you'd hit
it off pretty well now by marking out virtue in 'Virtue Is Its Own
Reward,' and substituting 'money.'"

"But I don't think we've got very much cause to complain," said
Warren. "We gathered in five subscribers yesterday, and three today,
besides an electric belt ad, to run for six months. Oh, we're all
right, and the first thing you know, we'll have some new clothes. We
don't want any hand-me-downs. About two weeks ago I went into the
tailor's shop across the square, and picked out a piece of cloth. But
when I passed there yesterday I noticed that some scoundrel had bought
it. Why, helloa; come in."

Uncle Buckley Lightfoot stood in the door. His approach had been so
soft that they did not hear him. His tread was always noiseless when
he walked in strange places. He appeared to be afraid of breaking
something.

"Come in!" Lyman s