But he was as dependent as a child, and as
capricious. What was the end to be? I asked myself.
Where was it all leading me?
And then, in a fearful and wonderful manner, my
question was answered.
There came to my desk one day an envelope bearing the
letter-head of the publishing house to which I had sent
my story. I balanced it for a moment in my fingers,
woman-fashion, wondering, hoping, surmising.
"Of course they can't want it," I told myself, in
preparation for any disappointment that was in store for
me. "They're sending it back. This is the letter that
will tell me so."
And then I opened it. The words jumped out at me
from the typewritten page. I crushed the paper in my
hands, and rushed into Blackie's little office as I had
been used to doing in the old days. He was at his desk,
pipe in mouth. I shook his shoulder and flourished the
letter wildly, and did a crazy little dance about his
chair.
"They want it! They like it! Not only that, they
want another, as soon as I can get it out. Think of it!"
Blackie removed his pipe from between his teeth and
wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "I'm
thinkin'," he said. "Anything t' oblige you. When
you're through shovin' that paper into my face would you
mind explainin' who wants what?"
"Oh, you're so stupid! So slow! Can't you see that
I've written a real live book, and had it accepted, and
that I am going to write another if I have to run away
from a whole regiment of husbands to do it properly?
Blackie, can't you see what it means! Oh, Blackie, I
know I'm maudlin in my joy, but forgive me.
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