experimented with living eyes. His cat and dog each lost an eye, and
finally a young girl was found willing to sell one of hers that she
might have money to help her lover. But none of the other stories shows
the originality and impressively realistic tone which distinguish The
Case of Summerfield. In this he achieved the successful combination of
audacity of theme with a fitting incisiveness of style. It alone rises
above the level of the merely ingenious and clever; it alone of his work
was worth preserving.

Scattered through the ranks of writers, part of whose profession is a
continuous, unflagging output, are these "one story men," who, in some
propitious moment, when the powers of brain and heart are intensified by
a rare and happy alchemy, produce a single masterpiece. The vision and
the dream have once been theirs, and, though they may never again
return, the product of the glowing moment is ours to rejoice in and
wonder at. Unfortunately the value of these accidental triumphs is not
always seen. They go their way and are submerged in the flood of fiction
that the presses pour upon a defenseless country. Now and then one
unexpectedly hears of them, their unfamiliar titles rise to the surface
when writers gather round the table. An investigator in the forgotten
files of magazinedom has found one, and tells of his treasure trove as
the diver of his newly discovered pearl. Then comes a publisher, who,
diligent and patient, draws them from their hiding-places, shakes off
the dust, and gives them to a public which once applauded and has since
forgotten.

Such has been the fate of The Case of Summerfield. Thirty-five years
ago, in the town that clustered along the edge of San Francisco Bay, it
had its brief award of attention. But the San Francisco of that day was
very distant - a gleam on the horizon against the blue line of the