There was no difficulty whatever about this; I
was told to ascend by means of the "elevator" to an upper storey,
and there I walked into a comfortable little room where a
youngish man sat smoking a cigar at a table covered with print
and manuscript. I introduced myself, stated my business. "Can you
give me work of any kind on your paper?" "Well, what experience
have you had?" "None whatever." The editor smiled. "I'm very much
afraid you would be no use to us. But what do you think you could
do?" Well now, there was but one thing that by any possibility I
could do. I asked him: "Do you publish any fiction--short
stories?" "Yes, we're always glad of a short story, if it's
good." This was a big daily paper; they have weekly supplements
of all conceivable kinds of matter. "Well," I said, "if I write a
story of English life, will you consider it?" "With pleasure." I
left him, and went out as if my existence were henceforth
provided for.'
He laughed heartily, and was joined by his hearers.
'It was a great thing to be permitted to write a story, but then-
-what story? I went down to the shore of Lake Michigan; walked
there for half an hour in an icy wind.
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