Martin Eden

and that they doubted if his book would sell a thousand copies. Martin figured what the book would earn him on such a sale. Retailed at a dollar, on a royalty of fifteen per cent, it would bring him one hundred and fifty dollars. He decided that if he had it to do over again he would confine himself to fiction. “Adventure,” one-fourth as long, had brought him twice as much from The Millennium . That newspaper paragraph he had read so long ago had been true, after all. The first-class magazines did not pay on acceptance, and they paid well. Not two cents a word, but four cents a word, had The Millennium paid him. And, furthermore, they bought good stuff, too, for were they not buying his? This last thought he accompanied with a grin.
    He wrote to Singletree, Darnley & Co., offering to sell out his rights in “The Shame of the Sun” for a hundred dollars, but they did not care to take the risk. In the meantime he was not in need of money, for several of his later stories had been accepted and paid for. He actually opened a bank account, where, without a debt in the world, he had several hundred dollars to his credit. “Overdue,” after having been declined by a number of magazines, came to rest at the Meredith-Lowell Company. Martin remembered the five dollars Gertrude had given him, and his resolve to return it to her a hundred times over; so he wrote for an advance on royalties of five hundred dollars. To his surprise a check for that amount, accompanied by a contract, came by return mail. He cashed the check into five-dollar gold pieces and telephoned Gertrude that he wanted to see her.
    She arrived at the house panting and short of breath from the haste she had made. Apprehensive of trouble, she had stuffed the few dollars she possessed into her hand-satchel; and so sure was she that disaster had overtaken her brother, that she stumbled forward, sobbing, into his arms, at the same time thrusting the satchel mutely at him.
    “I’d have come myself,” he said. “But I didn’t want a row with Mr. Higginbotham, and that is what would have surely happened.”
    “He’ll be all right after a time,” she assured him, while she wondered what the trouble was that Martin was in. “But you’d best get a job first an’ steady down. Bernard does like to see a man at honest work. That stuff in the newspapers broke ’m all up. I never saw ’m so mad before.”
    “I’m not going to get a job,” Martin said with a smile. “And you can tell him so from me. I don’t need a job, and there’s the proof of it.”
    He emptied the hundred gold pieces into her lap in a glinting, tinkling stream.
    “You remember that fiver you gave me the time I didn’t have carfare? Well, there it is, with ninety-nine brothers of different ages but all of the same size.”
    If Gertrude had been frightened when she arrived, she was now in a panic of fear. Her fear was such that it was certitude. She was not suspicious. She was convinced. She looked at Martin in horror, and her heavy limbs shrank under the golden stream as though it were burning her.
    “It’s yours,” he laughed.
    She burst into tears, and began to moan, “My poor boy, my poor boy!”
    He was puzzled for a moment. Then he divined the cause of her agitation and handed her the Meredith-Lowell letter which had accompanied the check. She stumbled through it, pausing now and again to wipe her eyes, and when she had finished, said:-
    “An’ does it mean that you come by the money honestly?”
    “More honestly than if I’d won it in a lottery. I earned it.”
    Slowly faith came back to her, and she reread the letter carefully. It took him long to explain to her the nature of the transaction which had put the money into his possession, and longer still to get her to understand that the money was really hers and that he did not need it.
    “I’ll put it in the bank for you,” she said finally.
    “You’ll do nothing of the sort. It’s yours, to do with as you please, and if you won’t take it, I’ll give it to Maria. She’ll know what to do with it. I’d suggest, though, that you hire a servant and take a good long rest.”
    “I’m goin’ to tell Bernard all about it,” she announced, when she was leaving.
    Martin winced, then grinned.
    “Yes, do,” he said. “And then, maybe, he’ll invite me to dinner again.”
    “Yes, he will—I’m sure he will!” she exclaimed fervently, as she drew him to her and kissed and hugged him.

CHAPTER XLII
    One