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“What’s the reason to write a whole library and lose his own life?” he demanded aloud. “This is no place for me. No more literature for me. I want the monthly salary, and the little home with Ruth.”
Two days later he asked for his mail, but his eyes hurt too much to permit him to read.
“You read for me, Maria,” he said. “Throw the big, long letters under the table. Read me the small letters.”
“I can’t,” was the answer. “Teresa, she goes to school, she can.”
So Teresa Silva opened his letters and read them to him. He listened absently. Suddenly he was shocked back to himself.
“‘We offer you forty dollars for all serial rights in your story.’”
“What magazine is that?” Martin shouted. “Here, give it to me!”
It was the WHITE MOUSE that was offering him forty dollars, and the story was “The Whirlpool,” another of his early horror stories. He read the letter through again and again.
Martin lay back and thought. It wasn’t a lie, after all. There were two thousand words in “The Whirlpool.” At forty dollars that would be two cents a word. Two cents a word – the newspapers had told the truth.
Well, there was one thing certain: when he got well, he would not go out looking for a job. There were more stories in his head as good as “The Whirlpool,” and at forty dollars apiece he could earn far more than in any job. Just when he thought the battle lost, it was won. The way was clear.
He found one letter from Ruth. He re-read the letter adoringly, loving each stroke of her pen, and in the end kissing her signature.
And when he answered, he told her that his best clothes were in pawn. He told her that he had been sick.
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