errors.

However, we found the idea amusing, therefore our payment. One of our
editors will work your manuscript into less-erratic typescript for
eventual publication.

Please continue to think of us in the future, but don't corn up your
script with so many studied blunders.

Sincerely,
Joseph Brandon, editor,
Boy's Magazine.

"Gee," breathed Jimmy, "a check!"

Jake laughed roughly. "Shakespeare," he roared. "Don't corn up your
stuff! You put too many errors in! Wow!"

Jimmy's eyes began to burn. He had no defense against this sarcasm. He
wanted praise for having accomplished something, instead of raucous
laughter.

"I wrote it," he said lamely.

"Oh, go away!" roared Jake.

Jimmy reached for the check.

"Scram," said Jake, shutting his laughter off instantly.

"It's mine!" cried Jimmy.

Jake paused, then laughed again. "Okay, smart kid. Take it and spend it!"
He handed the check to Jimmy Holden.

Jimmy took it quickly and left.

He wanted to eye it happily, to gloat over it, to turn it over and over
and to read it again and again; but he wanted to do it in private.

He took it with him to the nearest bank, feeling its folded bulk and
running a fingernail along the serrated edge.

He re-read it in the bank, then went to a teller's window. "Can you cash
this, please?" he asked.

The teller turned it over. "It isn't endorsed."

"I can't reach the desk to sign it," complained Jimmy.

"Have you an account here?" asked the teller politely.

"Well, no sir."

"Any identification?"

"No--no sir," said Jimmy thoughtfully. Not a shred of anything did he
have to show who he was under either name.

"Who is this Jimmy James?" asked the teller.

"Me. I am."

The teller smiled. "And you wrote a short story that sold to _Boy's
Magazine_?" he asked with a lifted eyebrow. "That's pretty good for a
little guy like you."

"Yes sir."

The teller looked over Jimmy's head; Jimmy turned to look up at one of
the bank's policemen. "Tom, what do you make of this?"

The policeman shrugged. He stooped down to Jimmy's level. "Where did you
get this check, young fellow?" he asked gently.

"It came in the mail this morning."

"You're Jimmy James?"

"Yes sir." Jimmy Holden had been called that for more than half a year;
his assent was automatic.

"How old are you, young man?" asked the policeman kindly.

"Five and a half."

"Isn't that a bit young to be writing stories?"

Jimmy bit his