n it. When I ask a man to write for me, I want him to
utter his mind with perfect freedom. My magazine is not one that is
afraid of strong opinions."

This statement backed up by the writer's signature on a blue slip
produced in me a moment of stupefaction. Entertaining no real hope of
acceptance, I had sent the manuscript in accordance with my principle of
trying every avenue, and to get such an answer--an immediate
answer--with a check!

As soon as I recovered the use of my head and hand, I replied in eager
acknowledgment. I do not recall the precise words of my letter, but it
brought about an early meeting between B. O. Flower, the editor, and
myself.

Flower's personality pleased me. Hardly more than a boy at this time, he
met me with the friendliest smile, and in our talk we discovered many
common lines of thought.

"Your story," he said, "is the kind of fiction I need. If you have any
more of that sort let me see it. My magazine is primarily for discussion
but I want to include at least one story in each issue. I cannot match
the prices of magazines like the _Century_ of course, but I will do the
best I can for you."

It would be difficult to exaggerate the value of this meeting to me, for
no matter what anyone may now say of the _Arena's_ logic or literary
style, its editor's life was nobly altruistic. I have never known a man
who strove more single-heartedly for social progress, than B. O. Flower.
He was the embodiment of unselfish public service, and his ready
sympathy for every genuine reform made his editorial office a center of
civic zeal. As champions of various causes we all met in his open lists.

In the months which followed he accepted for his magazine several of my
short stories and bought and printed _Under the Wheel_, an entire play,
not to mention an essay or two on _The New Declaration of Rights_. He
named me among his "regular contributors," and became not merely my
comforter and active supporter but my banker, for the regularity of his
payments raised me to comparative security. I was able to write home the
most encouraging reports of my progress.

At about the same time (or a little later) the _Century_ accepted a
short story which I called _A Spring Romance_, and a three-part tale of
Wisconsin. For these I received nearly five hundred dollars!
Accompanying the note of acceptance was a personal letter from Richard
Watson Gilder, so hearty in its words of appreciation that I was assured