Arthur remained at the gate while Ruth climbed Maria's front steps. She heard the rapid click of the type-writer, and when Martin let her in, found him on the last page of a manuscript. She had come to make certain whether or not he would be at their table for Thanksgiving dinner; but before she could broach the subject Martin plunged into the one with which he was full.

"Here, let me read you this," he cried, separating the carbon copies and running the pages of manuscript into shape. "It's my latest, and different from anything I've done. It is so altogether different that I am almost afraid of it, and yet I've a sneaking idea it is good. You be judge. It's an Hawaiian story. I've called it 'Wiki-wiki.'"

His face was bright with the creative glow, though she shivered in the cold room and had been struck by the coldness of his hands at greeting. She listened closely while he read, and though he from time to time had seen only disapprobation in her face, at the close he asked:-

"Frankly, what do you think of it?"

"I - I don't know," she, answered. "Will it - do you think it will sell?"

"I'm afraid not," was the confession. "It's too strong for the magazines. But it's true, on my word it's true."

"But why do you persist in writing such things when you know they won't sell?" she went on inexorably. "The reason for your writing is to make a living, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's right; but the miserable story got away with me. I couldn't help writing it. It demanded to be written."

"But that character, that Wiki-Wiki, why do you make him talk so roughly? Surely it will offend your readers, and surely that is why the editors are justified in refusing your work."

"Because the real Wiki-Wiki would have talked that way."

"But it is not good taste."

"It is life," he replied bluntly. "It is real. It is true. And I must write life as I see it."

She made no answer, and for an awkward moment they sat silent. It was because he loved her that he did not quite understand her, and she could not understand him because he was so large that he bulked beyond her horizon

"Well, I've collected from the TRANSCONTINENTAL," he said in an effort to shift the conversation to a more comfortable subject. The picture of the bewhiskered trio, as he had last seen them, mulcted of four dollars and ninety cents and a ferry ticket, made him chuckle.

"Then you'll come!" she cried joyously. "That was what I came to find out."

"Come?" he muttered absently. "Where?"

"Why, to dinner to-morrow. You know you said you'd recover your suit if you got that money."

"I forgot all about it," he said humbly. "You see, this morning the poundman got Maria's two cows and the baby calf, and - well, it happened that Maria didn't have any money, and so I had to recover her cows for her. That's where the TRANSCONTINENTAL fiver went - 'The Ring of Bells' went into the poundman's pocket."

"Then you won't come?"

He looked down at his clothing.

"I can't."

Tears of disappointment and reproach glistened in her blue eyes, but she said nothing.

"Next Thanksgiving you'll have dinner with me in Delmonico's," he said cheerily; "or in London, or Paris, or anywhere you wish. I know it."

"I saw in the paper a few days ago," she announced abruptly, "that there had been several local appointments to the Railway Mail. You passed first, didn't you?"

He was compelled to admit that the call had come for him, but that he had declined it. "I was so sure - I am so sure - of myself," he concluded. "A year from now I'll be earning more than a dozen men in the Railway Mail. You wait and see."

"Oh," was all she said, when he finished. She stood up, pulling at her gloves. "I must go, Martin. Arthur is waiting for me."

He took her in his arms and kissed her, but she proved a passive sweetheart. There was no tenseness in her body, her arms did not go around him, and her lips met his without their wonted pressure.

She was angry with him, he concluded, as he returned from the gate. But why? It was unfortunate that the poundman had gobbled Maria's cows. But it was only a stroke of fate. Nobody could be blamed for it. Nor did it enter his head that he could have done aught otherwise than what he had done. Well, yes, he was to blame a little, was his next thought, for having refused the call to the Railway Mail. And she had not liked "Wiki-Wiki."

He turned at the head of the steps to meet the letter-carrier on his afternoon round. The ever recurrent fever of expectancy assailed Martin as he took the bundle of long envelopes. One was not long. It was short and thin, and outside was printed the address of THE NEW YORK OUTVIEW. He paused in the act of tearing the envelope open. It could not be an acceptance. He had no manuscripts with that publication. Perhaps - his heart almost stood still at the - wild thought - perhaps they were ordering an article from him; but the next instant he dismissed the surmise as hopelessly impossible.

It was a short, formal letter, signed by the office editor, merely informing him that an anonymous letter which they had received was enclosed, and that he could rest assured the OUTVIEW'S staff never under any circumstances gave consideration to anonymous correspondence.

The enclosed letter Martin found to be crudely printed by hand. It was a hotchpotch of illiterate abuse of Martin, and of assertion that the "so-called Martin Eden" who was selling stories to magazines was no writer at all, and that in reality he was stealing stories from old magazines, typing them, and sending them out as his own. The envelope was postmarked "San Leandro." Martin did not require a second thought to discover the author. Higginbotham's grammar, Higginbotham's colloquialisms, Higginbotham's mental quirks and processes, were apparent throughout. Martin saw in every line, not the fine Italian hand, but the coarse grocer's fist, of his brother-in-law.

But why? he vainly questioned. What injury had he done Bernard Higginbotham? The thing was so unreasonable, so wanton. There was no explaining it. In the course of the week a dozen similar letters were forwarded to Martin by the editors of various Eastern magazines. The editors were behaving handsomely, Martin concluded. He was wholly unknown to them, yet some of them had even been sympathetic. It was evident that they detested anonymity. He saw that the malicious attempt to hurt him had failed. In fact, if anything came of it, it was bound to be good, for at least his name had been called to the attention of a number of editors. Sometime, perhaps, reading a submitted manuscript of his, they might remember him as the fellow about whom they had received an anonymous letter. And who was to say that such a remembrance might not sway the balance of their judgment just a trifle in his favor?

It was about this time that Martin took a great slump in Maria's estimation. He found her in the kitchen one morning groaning with pain, tears of weakness running down her cheeks, vainly endeavoring to put through a large ironing. He promptly diagnosed her affliction as La Grippe, dosed her with hot whiskey (the remnants in the bottles for which Brissenden was responsible), and ordered her to bed. But Maria was refractory. The ironing had to be done, she protested, and delivered that night, or else there would be no food on the morrow for the seven small and hungry Silvas.

To her astonishment (and it was something that she never ceased from relating to her dying day), she saw Martin Eden seize an iron from the stove and throw a fancy shirt-waist on the ironing-board. It was Kate Flanagan's best Sunday waist, than whom there was no more exacting and fastidiously dressed woman in Maria's world. Also, Miss Flanagan had sent special instruction that said waist must be delivered by that night. As every one knew, she was keeping company with John Collins, the blacksmith, and, as Maria knew privily, Miss Flanagan and Mr. Collins were going next day to Golden Gate Park. Vain was Maria's attempt to rescue the garment. Martin guided her tottering footsteps to a chair, from where she watched him with bulging eyes. In a quarter of the time it would have taken her she saw the shirt-waist safely ironed, and ironed as well as she could have done it, as Martin made her grant.

"I could work faster," he explained, "if your irons were only hotter."

To her, the irons he swung were much hotter than she ever dared to use.

"Your sprinkling is all wrong," he complained next. "Here, let me teach you how to sprinkle. Pressure is what's wanted. Sprinkle under pressure if you want to iron fast."

He procured a packing-case from the woodpile in the cellar, fitted a cover to it, and raided the scrap-iron the Silva tribe was collecting for the junkman. With fresh-sprinkled garments in the box, covered with the board and pressed by the iron, the device was complete and in operation.

"Now you watch me, Maria," he said, stripping off to his undershirt and gripping an iron that was what he called "really hot."

"An' when he feenish da iron' he washa da wools," as she described it afterward. "He say, 'Maria, you are da greata fool. I showa you how to washa da wools,' an' he shows me, too. Ten minutes he maka da machine - one barrel, one wheel-hub, two poles, justa like dat."

Martin had learned the contrivance from Joe at the Shelly Hot Springs. The old wheel-hub, fixed on the end of the upright pole, constituted the plunger. Making this, in turn, fast to the spring- pole attached to the kitchen rafters, so that the hub played upon the woollens in the barrel, he was able, with one hand, thoroughly to pound them.

"No more Maria washa da wools," her story always ended. "I maka da kids worka da pole an' da hub an' da barrel. Him da smarta man, Mister Eden."

Nevertheless, by his masterly operation and improvement of her kitchen-laundry he fell an immense distance in her regard. The glamour of romance with which her imagination had invested him faded away in the cold light of fact that he was an ex-laundryman. All his books, and his grand friends who visited him in carriages or with countless bottles of whiskey, went for naught. He was, after all, a mere workingman, a member of her own class and caste. He was more human and approachable, but, he was no longer mystery.

Martin's alienation from his family continued. Following upon Mr. Higginbotham's unprovoked attack, Mr. Hermann von Schmidt showed his hand. The fortunate sale of several storiettes, some humorous verse, and a few jokes gave Martin a temporary splurge of prosperity. Not only did he partially pay up his bills, but he had sufficient balance left to redeem his black suit and wheel. The latter, by virtue of a twisted crank-hanger, required repairing, and, as a matter of friendliness with his future brother-in-law, he sent it to Von Schmidt's shop.

The afternoon of the same day Martin was pleased by the wheel being delivered by a small boy. Von Schmidt was also inclined to be friendly, was Martin's conclusion from this unusual favor. Repaired wheels usually had to be called for. But when he examined the wheel, he discovered no repairs had been made. A little later in the day he telephoned his sister's betrothed, and learned that that person didn't want anything to do with him in "any shape, manner, or form."

"Hermann von Schmidt," Martin answered cheerfully, "I've a good mind to come over and punch that Dutch nose of yours."

"You come to my shop," came the reply, "an' I'll send for the police. An' I'll put you through, too. Oh, I know you, but you can't make no rough-house with me. I don't want nothin' to do with the likes of you. You're a loafer, that's what, an' I ain't asleep. You ain't goin' to do no spongin' off me just because I'm marryin' your sister. Why don't you go to work an' earn an honest livin', eh? Answer me that."

Martin's philosophy asserted itself, dissipating his anger, and he hung up the receiver with a long whistle of incredulous amusement. But after the amusement came the reaction, and he was oppressed by his loneliness. Nobody understood him, nobody seemed to have any use for him, except Brissenden, and Brissenden had disappeared, God alone knew where.

Twilight was falling as Martin left the fruit store and turned homeward, his marketing on his arm. At the corner an electric car had stopped, and at sight of a lean, familiar figure alighting, his heart leapt with joy. It was Brissenden, and in the fleeting glimpse, ere the car started up, Martin noted the overcoat pockets, one bulging with books, the other bulging with a quart bottle of whiskey.

亚瑟留在门日，露丝路上了玛利亚家门前的台阶。她听见打字机急速地敲打着，马丁请她进去时她发现他在打着最后一页稿子。她是来确定他是否去她家参加感恩节宴会的。但是不等她谈到本题，马丁已经谈开了他自己的题目，他满肚子就是他那题目。

“呐，让我读给你听，”他叫道，把复写的稿页分别整理好，“这是我最新的作品，和我已写过的任何作品都不相同。太不同了，连我都差不多害怕起来。不过我自以为不错。你来当当裁判吧。是一个夏威夷的故事。我叫它《威几威几》。”

虽然她在这寒冷的屋里冷得发抖，和他握手时也感到他的手冰凉，他仍然满脸闪亮，洋溢着创造的欢乐。他读，她细细地听，尽管他读时也见她脸上只有不以为然的表情，读完他仍然问道：——

“说真话，你的印象如何？”

“我——我不知道，”她回答，“它能不能——你认为它卖得掉么？”

“怕是卖不掉，”他承认，“投给杂志嫌太激烈。不过很实事求是，我保证它实事求是。”

“你明明知道卖不掉，为什么偏偏要写这种东西呢”她不客气地说，“你写作是为了生活，是么？”

“是的，不错，但是那悲惨的故事迷住了我，我忍不住要写。它逼着我非写不可。”

“可是你为什么让你那角色威几威几说话那么粗野？那肯定会叫读者不高兴，也确实说明了编辑们不肯发表你作品的理由。”

“因为真正的威几成几就是那么说话的。”

“不过品位就低了。”

“那是生活，”他直率地回答，“那是现实的，是真正的。我必须按照我见到的生活的原样写作。”

她没有回答。两人尴尬地坐了一会儿。他不理解她是因为太爱她；而他却太宏大，远在她的地平线之外。

“我已经从《跨越大陆》收到欠款了，”他努力转入一个较为轻松的话题，他所见到的三个连鬓胡叫他抢走了四块九毛钱外加一张轮渡票的景象使他不禁格格地笑了。

“那么你是要来的喽！”她快活地叫了起来，“我就是为明确这个问题才来的。”

“来？”他心不在焉地咕哝道，“到哪儿？”

“怎么，来赴宴呀，你知道你说过要到那笔钱就把衣服赎出来。”

“我全忘了，”他乖乖地说，“你看，今天早上牲畜栏看守把玛利亚的两头母牛和牛犊牵走了，——可玛利亚一个钱也没有。我只好帮她赎回了牛。《跨越大陆》的五块钱花掉了。《钟声激越》进了畜栏看守的腰包。”

“那你是不来了么？”

他低头看着他的衣服。

“我来不了。”

她蓝色的服里闪烁起失望和责难的泪花，没有说话。

“明年感恩节我要你跟我到德梦尼可去吃大餐，”他快活地说，“或者是到伦敦、巴黎，或是你想去的任何地方。这我明白。”

“我几天以前在一张报纸上看见，”她突然宣布，“铁路邮局已发了几项当他的任命。你是以第一名考上的，是么？”

他只好承认给了他通知，却被他拒绝了。“那时我对自己很有信心，现在也一样，”他结束道，“一年以后我的收入要超过十二个邮务员。你等着瞧。”

他说完了话，她只“哦”了一声，便站了起来，拉拉手套。“我要走了，亚瑟还在等我呢。”

他伸手接过她来吻她，可她却被动，身体没有激情，胳臂拥抱不紧，接吻也不如平时那么用力。

他从门口回来时的结论是：她生气了。可为什么？畜栏看守把玛利亚的母牛牵走了，那很不幸，可那不过是命运的打击，不能怪任何人的。他也想不出除了他那做法之外还能有什么别的办法。是的，他应该受到埋怨，因为邮局给了他录取通知，他却没去，而且她也不喜欢恢几威几人

他在台阶顶上转过身来，去迎接下午那班邮件。他接过那一扎长信封时，一向就出现的期望的狂热又袭击了他。有一个信封不长，外面印好《纽约远眺》字样。他正要拆信，忽然打住了。那不可能是接受稿件的信。也许——一个异想天开的念头闪过，他的心几乎停止了跳动——说不足他们是向他约稿呢。可他随即丢掉了这念头，那是绝对不可能的。

那是一封官样文章的短信，由办公室编辑署名，只是通知他他们接到一封匿名信，附在信里寄了来；并通知他不必在意，《纽约远眺》编辑部在任何情况下也是不会考虑任何匿名信的意见的。

马丁发现那匿名信是手写的印刷体，写得很糟糕，是一些对马丁的没有教养的谩骂，硬说向各杂志兜售稿子的“所谓马丁·伊登”根本不是作家，实际上他是在从旧杂志上盗窃作品，把它们打出来据为己有往外投稿。信封上邮戳的地点是圣利安德罗。马丁不用多想就发现了那作者。那东西通篇显然都是希金波坦的语法，希金波坦的用语，希金波坦的奇谈怪论。马丁在每一行里看见的都是他姐夫那杂货店老板的粗糙的拳头，而不是他那意大利式的细小的字迹。

可他是为了什么？他百思不得其解。他什么地方得罪了希金波担了？这事太没有道理，太荒唐，无法解释。一周之内东部若干家杂志的编辑部都给他转来了十多封类必的信。马丁的结论是编辑们做得都很漂亮，他们谁都不认识地，可有几个对他还颇表同情。他们显然憎恶匿名信。他明白要想伤害他的阴谋是失败了。实际上此事如果有什么后果，那就只能是好后果，目为他的名字已引起了许多编辑的注意。以后他们读到他的稿子说不定会想起他就是他们曾收到过的匿名信所投诉的人。这样一回忆谁又能说得清它不会影响他们的判断，让他的稿子沾点光呢。

大约就在这个时候马丁的身份在玛利亚的心目中却一落千丈。有天早上玛利亚在厨房里痛苦地呻吟，软弱的眼泪沿着面颊往下流，却仍力不从心地熨烫着一大披衣服。他立即诊断她是害了流感，给她喝了热威士忌（那是布里森登带来的几瓶酒里剩下的），然后命令她躺到床上去。但是玛利亚不肯，她抗议说衣服非烫完不可，当天晚上就要送去，否则明天早上七个饥饿的小西尔伐就没有饭吃。

令玛利亚大吃一惊的是看见马丁·伊登从炉子里抓起一把熨斗，又把一件花哨的连衣裙扔到熨烫板上（这事地老讲个没完，一直到她死去）。那可是凯特·美兰纳百的星期日盛装，而在玛利亚的世界里谁的穿着也比不上她更仔细，更挑剔；何况她还专门带了信来要求那件连衣裙当天晚上必须送去。大家鄙知道她正在跟铁匠约翰·科林斯谈恋爱，玛利亚还悄悄地知道芙兰纳村小姐和科林斯先生明天要到金门公园去玩。玛利亚企图抢救那件连衣裙，但是没有办法。她歪歪倒倒地被马丁扶到一张椅子上坐下，在那里瞪大眼望着他。她眼见他只花了她四分之一的时间就把连衣裙平安无事地熨烫好了，而且不得不向马丁承认他烫得不比地差。

“我可以烫得更快，”他说．“若是你的熨斗烧得更烫的活。”

可那挥舞在他手上的熨斗已经比她敢用的那种熨斗烫了许多。

“你喷水也完全不得法，”他接下去又抱怨，“来，让我来教你怎么喷水。需要压力，要想熨烫得快，就得用力喷。”

他从地客的木料堆里找出了一个打包箱，装上盖子，又在西尔伐家的孩子们搞来准备卖给废品商的废料里搜刮了一番。刚喷过水的衣服放进箱子，盖上熨烫板，然后用熨斗熨，那设计就像这样完成了，可以用了。

“现在你看我，玛利亚，”他说，脱得只剩下一件贴身衬衫，抓起一把他认为“真烧烫了”的熨斗。

“他烫完衣服又洗毛线，”她后来叙述说，“他说，‘玛利亚，你是个大笨蛋，我来教教你洗毛线，’然后就教了我。他十分钟就做好了这部机器——一个桶，一个轮毂，两根杆子，就像那样。”

那设计是马丁在雪莉温泉旅馆从乔那里学来的。轮毂固定在一根垂直的杆子上，构成了春祥，然后把这东西固定在厨房的梁上，让轮载拍打水桶里的毛线衣物，只需要一只手他就可以通通拍打个够。

“我玛利亚以后再也不用洗毛线了，”她的故事总是这样结束，“我只叫娃娃们弄轮毂和水桶就行了。他这人可灵巧，伊登先生。”

可是，马丁的这手精湛的功夫和对她厨房洗衣间的改进却叫他在玛利亚眼中的身分一落千丈。她的想像给他博士的浪漫色彩在现实的冷冰冰的光照前暗淡了下去——原来他以前不过是个洗衣工。于是他那所有的书籍，他那坐了漂亮马车或是带了不知多少瓶威士忌酒来看他的阔朋友都不算回事了。他不过是个工人而已，跟她同一个阶级，同一个层次。他更亲切了，更好接近了，可再也不神秘了。

马丁跟他的家人越来越疏远了。随着希金波坦先生那无端的攻击之后，赫尔曼·冯·史密特先生电摊了牌。马丁在侥幸卖掉几篇小小说。几首俏皮诗和几个笑话之后有过一段短暂的春风得意的时期。他不但还掉了一部分旧帐，还剩下几块钱把黑衣服和自行车赎了回来。自行车的曲轴歪了，需要修理。为了对他未来的妹夫表示好感他把车送到了冯·史密特的修理店。

当天下午那车就由一个小孩送了回来。马丁很高兴，从这番不同寻常的优待马丁得到的结论是；冯·史密特也有表示好感的意思，修理自行车一般是得自己去取的。可是他一检查，却发现车并没有修。他立即给妹妹的未婚夫打了电话，这才知道了那人并不愿意跟他“有仔何形式、任何关系和任何状态的交往”。

“赫尔曼·冯·史密特，”马丁快活地回答道；“我倒真想来会会你，揍你那荷兰鼻子一顿呢。”

“你只要一来我的铺子，我就叫警察，”回答是，“我还得戳穿你的真相。我明白你是什么样的人，可你别想来惹事生非。我不愿意跟你这号人打交道。你这个懒虫，你就是懒，我可不糊涂，你别因为我要娶你的妹妹就想来占什么便宜。你为什么不老老实实去干活？哎，回答呀片

马丁的哲学起了作用，它赶走了他的愤怒，他吹了一声长长的口哨，觉得难以相信的滑稽，桂掉了电话。可随着他的滑稽之感来的是另一种反应，一阵寂寞压上他的心头。谁也不理解他，谁对他都似乎没有用处，除了布里森登之外，而布里森登又不见了，只有上帝才知道到哪里去了。

马丁抱着买来的东西离开水果店回家时，大巴斯黑。路边有一辆电车停了下来，他看见一个熟悉的瘦削身影下了电车，心里不禁欢乐地跳跃起来。是布里森登。在电车起动之前的短暂的一瞥里地注意到布里森登外衣的口袋鼓鼓囊囊的，一边塞着书，一边是一瓶一夸脱装的威士忌酒。