man and woman love; in fatherhood; in human justice; in art--in
the whole host of fond illusions that keep the world turning
around.

But the waiting editors elected to keep on waiting. My
manuscripts made amazing round-trip records between the Pacific
and the Atlantic. It might have been the weirdness of the
typewriting that prevented the editors from accepting at least one
little offering of mine. I don't know, and goodness knows the
stuff I wrote was as weird as its typing. I sold my hard-bought
school books for ridiculous sums to second-hand bookmen. I
borrowed small sums of money wherever I could, and suffered my old
father to feed me with the meagre returns of his failing strength.

It didn't last long, only a few weeks, when I had to surrender and
go to work. Yet I was unaware of any need for the drink anodyne.
I was not disappointed. My career was retarded, that was all.
Perhaps I did need further preparation. I had learned enough from
the books to realise that I had only touched the hem of
knowledge's garment. I still lived on the heights. My waking
hours, and most of the hours I should have used for sleep, were
spent with the books.



CHAPTER XXIV


Out in the country, at the Belmont Academy, I went to work in a
small, perfectly appointed steam laundry. Another fellow and