got into the heroine's calm gray eyes. What heroine
could remain calm-eyed when her creator's mind is filled
with roast beef? A half-hour elapses before I get back
on the track. Then appears the hero--a tall blond youth,
fair to behold. I make him two yards high, and endow him
with a pair of clothing-advertisement shoulders.

There assails my nostrils a fearful smell of
scorching. The roast! A wild rush into the kitchen. I
fling open the oven door. The roast is mahogany-colored,
and gravyless. It takes fifteen minutes of the most
desperate first-aid-to-the-injured measures before the
roast is revived.

Back to the writing. It has lost its charm. The
gray-eyed heroine is a stick; she moves like an Indian
lady outside a cigar shop. The hero is a milk-and-water
sissy, without a vital spark in him. What's the use of
trying to write, anyway? Nobody wants my stuff. Good
for nothing except dubbing on a newspaper!

Rap! Rap! Rappity-rap-rap! Bing! Milk!

I dash into the kitchen. No milk! No milkman! I
fly to the door. He is disappearing around the corner of
the house.

"Hi! Mr. Milkman! Say, Mr. Milkman!" with frantic
beckonings.