I fumbled with my hands over the white spot, and felt, to my astonishment,
that it was a letter. I take it over to the window, examine as well as it
is possible in the dark the badly-written letters of the address, and make
out at least my own name. Ah, I thought, an answer from my landlady,
forbidding me to enter the room again if I were for sneaking back.

Slowly, quite slowly I left the room, carrying my shoes in one hand, the
letter in the other, and the blanket under my arm. I draw myself up, set
my teeth as I tread on the creaking steps, get happily down the stairs,
and stand once more at the door. I put on my shoes, take my time with the
laces, sit a while quietly after I'm ready, and stare vacantly before me,
holding the letter in my hand. Then I get up and go.

The flickering ray of a gas lamp gleams up the
street. I make straight for the light, lean my parcel
against the lamp-post and open the letter. All
this with the utmost deliberation. A stream of
light, as it were, darts through my breast, and I hear
that I give a little cry--a meaningless sound of
joy. The letter was from the editor. My story
was accepted--had been set in type immediately,
straight off! A few slight alterations.... A
couple of errors in writing amended.... Worked
out with talent ... be printed tomorrow ...
half-a-sovereign.

I laughed and cried, took to jumping and running down the street, stopped,
slapped my thighs, swore loudly and solemnly into space at nothing in
particular. And time went.