price that
suited his scanty purse, collected a month's rent on the spot--lest
haply Phil might run into temptation by having that much more money in
his possession--and left the newcomer to his own devices.

Half an hour later, Langford shouted to him from the hallway.

"Come on over, Ralston, if you're awake."

Phil obeyed.

"We've all had to go through what you did," said Langford, "but Mrs.
Clunie is worth it;--she's a crackerjack. How do you like the
lay-out?"

Phil was busy taking in the physical features of Langford's room.

But for the bed and the bureau, the room was more like a study than a
bedroom. It contained bookcases from floor to ceiling, packed with
literary treasures.

"My pals," said Langford, pointing to two of them containing the
classics of fiction, poetry and essays.

"My enemies," he continued, nodding at the third bookcase, packed with
books on law.

"Friends of mine," he went on, pointing to a pen and inkwell on a
small writing table.

He went over to one of the trunks that graced the window as seats. He
raised the lid. It was filled to overflowing with rolls of paper,
loose sheets and scraps, all closely written upon.

"My babies," he laughed. "Behold in me the most prolific mother in all
literature!"

"What are they?" inquired Phil.

"The offsprings of fancy," returned Langford, grandiloquently;
"essays, short stories, dramas, poems--all of no financial value. Dime
novels worth fifty dollars a time, but all cashed. Advice to the Love
Sick--five dollars a column--alas also unconvertible."

Phil stood before him a little nonplussed, while Langford grinned and
smoked on.

"I suffer continually the mental pangs of literary childbirth."

He sat in a chair and lounged dreamily as he puffed out clouds of
smoke, his long legs sprawling out in front of him.

"You're lucky to have such a talent," put in Phil at last.

"Lucky! Talent!" exclaimed Langford.

"I always understood literature was a lucrative pursuit."

"Pursuit,--yes;--but lucrative! Ye gods!

"You see, Ralston, I suffer with my thoughts until I relieve myself by
getting them down as best I can on paper, then I bury them in my
trunk along with their elder brothers. I know I ought to burn them,
but I haven't the heart to murder my children born in such travail.
Some day, however, it will have to be done, otherwise they'll crowd
their father-mother out of house and home."

"Don't you try to market your work?"