But Mr. Stockton, like most men, had only a certain fund of energy and
enthusiasm at his disposal. His work on the paper used up the first
fruits of his zeal and strength. After that came his article on current
poetry, written (unsigned) for a leading imitation literary weekly. The
preparation of this involved a careful perusal of at least fifty
journals, both American and foreign, and I blush to say it brought him
only fifteen dollars a week. He wrote a weekly "New York Letter" for a
Chicago paper of bookish tendencies, in which he told with a flavour of
intimacy the goings on of literary men in Manhattan whom he never had
time or opportunity to meet. This article was paid for at space rates,
which are less in Chicago than in New York. On this count he averaged
about six dollars a week.

That brings us up to seventy-one dollars, and also pretty close to the
limit of our friend's endurance. The additional ten dollars or so needed
for the stability of the Stockton exchequer he earned in various ways.
Neighbours in New Utrecht would hear his weary typewriter clacking far
into the night. He wrote short stories, of only fair merit; and he wrote
"Sunday stories," which is the lowest depth to which a self-respecting
lover of literature can fall. Once in a while he gave a lecture on
poetry, but he was a shy man, and he never was asked to lecture twice in
the same place. By almost incredible exertions of courage and obstinacy
he wrote a novel, which was published, and sold 2,580 copies the first
year. His royalties on this amounted to $348.30--not one-third as much,
he reflected sadly, as Irvin Cobb would receive for a single short
story. He even did a little private tutoring at his home, giving the
sons of some of his friends lessons in English literature.

It is to be seen that Mr. Stockton's relatives, back in Indiana, were