Martin was steadily losing his battle. Economize as he would, the earnings from hack-work did not balance expenses. Thanksgiving found him with his black suit in pawn and unable to accept the Morses' invitation to dinner. Ruth was not made happy by his reason for not coming, and the corresponding effect on him was one of desperation. He told her that he would come, after all; that he would go over to San Francisco, to the TRANSCONTINENTAL office, collect the five dollars due him, and with it redeem his suit of clothes.

In the morning he borrowed ten cents from Maria. He would have borrowed it, by preference, from Brissenden, but that erratic individual had disappeared. Two weeks had passed since Martin had seen him, and he vainly cudgelled his brains for some cause of offence. The ten cents carried Martin across the ferry to San Francisco, and as he walked up Market Street he speculated upon his predicament in case he failed to collect the money. There would then be no way for him to return to Oakland, and he knew no one in San Francisco from whom to borrow another ten cents.

The door to the TRANSCONTINENTAL office was ajar, and Martin, in the act of opening it, was brought to a sudden pause by a loud voice from within, which exclaimed:- "But that is not the question, Mr. Ford." (Ford, Martin knew, from his correspondence, to be the editor's name.) "The question is, are you prepared to pay? - cash, and cash down, I mean? I am not interested in the prospects of the TRANSCONTINENTAL and what you expect to make it next year. What I want is to be paid for what I do. And I tell you, right now, the Christmas TRANSCONTINENTAL don't go to press till I have the money in my hand. Good day. When you get the money, come and see me."

The door jerked open, and the man flung past Martin, with an angry countenance and went down the corridor, muttering curses and clenching his fists. Martin decided not to enter immediately, and lingered in the hallways for a quarter of an hour. Then he shoved the door open and walked in. It was a new experience, the first time he had been inside an editorial office. Cards evidently were not necessary in that office, for the boy carried word to an inner room that there was a man who wanted to see Mr. Ford. Returning, the boy beckoned him from halfway across the room and led him to the private office, the editorial sanctum. Martin's first impression was of the disorder and cluttered confusion of the room. Next he noticed a bewhiskered, youthful-looking man, sitting at a roll-top desk, who regarded him curiously. Martin marvelled at the calm repose of his face. It was evident that the squabble with the printer had not affected his equanimity.

"I - I am Martin Eden," Martin began the conversation. ("And I want my five dollars," was what he would have liked to say.)

But this was his first editor, and under the circumstances he did not desire to scare him too abruptly. To his surprise, Mr. Ford leaped into the air with a "You don't say so!" and the next moment, with both hands, was shaking Martin's hand effusively.

"Can't say how glad I am to see you, Mr. Eden. Often wondered what you were like."

Here he held Martin off at arm's length and ran his beaming eyes over Martin's second-best suit, which was also his worst suit, and which was ragged and past repair, though the trousers showed the careful crease he had put in with Maria's flat-irons.

"I confess, though, I conceived you to be a much older man than you are. Your story, you know, showed such breadth, and vigor, such maturity and depth of thought. A masterpiece, that story - I knew it when I had read the first half-dozen lines. Let me tell you how I first read it. But no; first let me introduce you to the staff."

Still talking, Mr. Ford led him into the general office, where he introduced him to the associate editor, Mr. White, a slender, frail little man whose hand seemed strangely cold, as if he were suffering from a chill, and whose whiskers were sparse and silky.

"And Mr. Ends, Mr. Eden. Mr. Ends is our business manager, you know."

Martin found himself shaking hands with a cranky-eyed, bald-headed man, whose face looked youthful enough from what little could be seen of it, for most of it was covered by a snow-white beard, carefully trimmed - by his wife, who did it on Sundays, at which times she also shaved the back of his neck.

The three men surrounded Martin, all talking admiringly and at once, until it seemed to him that they were talking against time for a wager.

"We often wondered why you didn't call," Mr. White was saying.

"I didn't have the carfare, and I live across the Bay," Martin answered bluntly, with the idea of showing them his imperative need for the money.

Surely, he thought to himself, my glad rags in themselves are eloquent advertisement of my need. Time and again, whenever opportunity offered, he hinted about the purpose of his business. But his admirers' ears were deaf. They sang his praises, told him what they had thought of his story at first sight, what they subsequently thought, what their wives and families thought; but not one hint did they breathe of intention to pay him for it.

"Did I tell you how I first read your story?" Mr. Ford said. "Of course I didn't. I was coming west from New York, and when the train stopped at Ogden, the train-boy on the new run brought aboard the current number of the TRANSCONTINENTAL."

My God! Martin thought; you can travel in a Pullman while I starve for the paltry five dollars you owe me. A wave of anger rushed over him. The wrong done him by the TRANSCONTINENTAL loomed colossal, for strong upon him were all the dreary months of vain yearning, of hunger and privation, and his present hunger awoke and gnawed at him, reminding him that he had eaten nothing since the day before, and little enough then. For the moment he saw red. These creatures were not even robbers. They were sneak-thieves. By lies and broken promises they had tricked him out of his story. Well, he would show them. And a great resolve surged into his will to the effect that he would not leave the office until he got his money. He remembered, if he did not get it, that there was no way for him to go back to Oakland. He controlled himself with an effort, but not before the wolfish expression of his face had awed and perturbed them.

They became more voluble than ever. Mr. Ford started anew to tell how he had first read "The Ring of Bells," and Mr. Ends at the same time was striving to repeat his niece's appreciation of "The Ring of Bells," said niece being a school-teacher in Alameda.

"I'll tell you what I came for," Martin said finally. "To be paid for that story all of you like so well. Five dollars, I believe, is what you promised me would be paid on publication."

Mr. Ford, with an expression on his mobile features of mediate and happy acquiescence, started to reach for his pocket, then turned suddenly to Mr. Ends, and said that he had left his money home. That Mr. Ends resented this, was patent; and Martin saw the twitch of his arm as if to protect his trousers pocket. Martin knew that the money was there.

"I am sorry," said Mr. Ends, "but I paid the printer not an hour ago, and he took my ready change. It was careless of me to be so short; but the bill was not yet due, and the printer's request, as a favor, to make an immediate advance, was quite unexpected."

Both men looked expectantly at Mr. White, but that gentleman laughed and shrugged his shoulders. His conscience was clean at any rate. He had come into the TRANSCONTINENTAL to learn magazine- literature, instead of which he had principally learned finance. The TRANSCONTINENTAL owed him four months' salary, and he knew that the printer must be appeased before the associate editor.

"It's rather absurd, Mr. Eden, to have caught us in this shape," Mr. Ford preambled airily. "All carelessness, I assure you. But I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll mail you a check the first thing in the morning. You have Mr. Eden's address, haven't you, Mr. Ends?"

Yes, Mr. Ends had the address, and the check would be mailed the first thing in the morning. Martin's knowledge of banks and checks was hazy, but he could see no reason why they should not give him the check on this day just as well as on the next.

"Then it is understood, Mr. Eden, that we'll mail you the check to- morrow?" Mr. Ford said.

"I need the money to-day," Martin answered stolidly.

"The unfortunate circumstances - if you had chanced here any other day," Mr. Ford began suavely, only to be interrupted by Mr. Ends, whose cranky eyes justified themselves in his shortness of temper.

"Mr. Ford has already explained the situation," he said with asperity. "And so have I. The check will be mailed - "

"I also have explained," Martin broke in, "and I have explained that I want the money to-day."

He had felt his pulse quicken a trifle at the business manager's brusqueness, and upon him he kept an alert eye, for it was in that gentleman's trousers pocket that he divined the TRANSCONTINENTAL'S ready cash was reposing.

"It is too bad - " Mr. Ford began.

But at that moment, with an impatient movement, Mr. Ends turned as if about to leave the room. At the same instant Martin sprang for him, clutching him by the throat with one hand in such fashion that Mr. Ends' snow-white beard, still maintaining its immaculate trimness, pointed ceilingward at an angle of forty-five degrees. To the horror of Mr. White and Mr. Ford, they saw their business manager shaken like an Astrakhan rug.

"Dig up, you venerable discourager of rising young talent!" Martin exhorted. "Dig up, or I'll shake it out of you, even if it's all in nickels." Then, to the two affrighted onlookers: "Keep away! If you interfere, somebody's liable to get hurt."

Mr. Ends was choking, and it was not until the grip on his throat was eased that he was able to signify his acquiescence in the digging-up programme. All together, after repeated digs, its trousers pocket yielded four dollars and fifteen cents.

"Inside out with it," Martin commanded.

An additional ten cents fell out. Martin counted the result of his raid a second time to make sure.

"You next!" he shouted at Mr. Ford. "I want seventy-five cents more."

Mr. Ford did not wait, but ransacked his pockets, with the result of sixty cents.

"Sure that is all?" Martin demanded menacingly, possessing himself of it. "What have you got in your vest pockets?"

In token of his good faith, Mr. Ford turned two of his pockets inside out. A strip of cardboard fell to the floor from one of them. He recovered it and was in the act of returning it, when Martin cried:-

"What's that? - A ferry ticket? Here, give it to me. It's worth ten cents. I'll credit you with it. I've now got four dollars and ninety-five cents, including the ticket. Five cents is still due me."

He looked fiercely at Mr. White, and found that fragile creature in the act of handing him a nickel.

"Thank you," Martin said, addressing them collectively. "I wish you a good day."

"Robber!" Mr. Ends snarled after him.

"Sneak-thief!" Martin retorted, slamming the door as he passed out.

Martin was elated - so elated that when he recollected that THE HORNET owed him fifteen dollars for "The Peri and the Pearl," he decided forthwith to go and collect it. But THE HORNET was run by a set of clean-shaven, strapping young men, frank buccaneers who robbed everything and everybody, not excepting one another. After some breakage of the office furniture, the editor (an ex-college athlete), ably assisted by the business manager, an advertising agent, and the porter, succeeded in removing Martin from the office and in accelerating, by initial impulse, his descent of the first flight of stairs.

"Come again, Mr. Eden; glad to see you any time," they laughed down at him from the landing above.

Martin grinned as he picked himself up.

"Phew!" he murmured back. "The TRANSCONTINENTAL crowd were nanny- goats, but you fellows are a lot of prize-fighters."

More laughter greeted this.

"I must say, Mr. Eden," the editor of THE HORNET called down, "that for a poet you can go some yourself. Where did you learn that right cross - if I may ask?"

"Where you learned that half-Nelson," Martin answered. "Anyway, you're going to have a black eye."

"I hope your neck doesn't stiffen up," the editor wished solicitously: "What do you say we all go out and have a drink on it - not the neck, of course, but the little rough-house?"

"I'll go you if I lose," Martin accepted.

And robbers and robbed drank together, amicably agreeing that the battle was to the strong, and that the fifteen dollars for "The Peri and the Pearl" belonged by right to THE HORNET'S editorial staff.

CHAPTER XXXIII

Martin was steadily losing his battle. Economize as he would, the earnings from hack-work did not balance expenses. Thanksgiving found him with his black suit in pawn and unable to accept the Morses' invitation to dinner. Ruth was not made happy by his reason for not coming, and the corresponding effect on him was one of desperation. He told her that he would come, after all; that he would go over to San Francisco, to the TRANSCONTINENTAL office, collect the five dollars due him, and with it redeem his suit of clothes.

In the morning he borrowed ten cents from Maria. He would have borrowed it, by preference, from Brissenden, but that erratic individual had disappeared. Two weeks had passed since Martin had seen him, and he vainly cudgelled his brains for some cause of offence. The ten cents carried Martin across the ferry to San Francisco, and as he walked up Market Street he speculated upon his predicament in case he failed to collect the money. There would then be no way for him to return to Oakland, and he knew no one in San Francisco from whom to borrow another ten cents.

The door to the TRANSCONTINENTAL office was ajar, and Martin, in the act of opening it, was brought to a sudden pause by a loud voice from within, which exclaimed:- "But that is not the question, Mr. Ford." (Ford, Martin knew, from his correspondence, to be the editor's name.) "The question is, are you prepared to pay? - cash, and cash down, I mean? I am not interested in the prospects of the TRANSCONTINENTAL and what you expect to make it next year. What I want is to be paid for what I do. And I tell you, right now, the Christmas TRANSCONTINENTAL don't go to press till I have the money in my hand. Good day. When you get the money, come and see me."

The door jerked open, and the man flung past Martin, with an angry countenance and went down the corridor, muttering curses and clenching his fists. Martin decided not to enter immediately, and lingered in the hallways for a quarter of an hour. Then he shoved the door open and walked in. It was a new experience, the first time he had been inside an editorial office. Cards evidently were not necessary in that office, for the boy carried word to an inner room that there was a man who wanted to see Mr. Ford. Returning, the boy beckoned him from halfway across the room and led him to the private office, the editorial sanctum. Martin's first impression was of the disorder and cluttered confusion of the room. Next he noticed a bewhiskered, youthful-looking man, sitting at a roll-top desk, who regarded him curiously. Martin marvelled at the calm repose of his face. It was evident that the squabble with the printer had not affected his equanimity.

"I - I am Martin Eden," Martin began the conversation. ("And I want my five dollars," was what he would have liked to say.)

But this was his first editor, and under the circumstances he did not desire to scare him too abruptly. To his surprise, Mr. Ford leaped into the air with a "You don't say so!" and the next moment, with both hands, was shaking Martin's hand effusively.

"Can't say how glad I am to see you, Mr. Eden. Often wondered what you were like."

Here he held Martin off at arm's length and ran his beaming eyes over Martin's second-best suit, which was also his worst suit, and which was ragged and past repair, though the trousers showed the careful crease he had put in with Maria's flat-irons.

"I confess, though, I conceived you to be a much older man than you are. Your story, you know, showed such breadth, and vigor, such maturity and depth of thought. A masterpiece, that story - I knew it when I had read the first half-dozen lines. Let me tell you how I first read it. But no; first let me introduce you to the staff."

Still talking, Mr. Ford led him into the general office, where he introduced him to the associate editor, Mr. White, a slender, frail little man whose hand seemed strangely cold, as if he were suffering from a chill, and whose whiskers were sparse and silky.

"And Mr. Ends, Mr. Eden. Mr. Ends is our business manager, you know."

Martin found himself shaking hands with a cranky-eyed, bald-headed man, whose face looked youthful enough from what little could be seen of it, for most of it was covered by a snow-white beard, carefully trimmed - by his wife, who did it on Sundays, at which times she also shaved the back of his neck.

The three men surrounded Martin, all talking admiringly and at once, until it seemed to him that they were talking against time for a wager.

"We often wondered why you didn't call," Mr. White was saying.

"I didn't have the carfare, and I live across the Bay," Martin answered bluntly, with the idea of showing them his imperative need for the money.

Surely, he thought to himself, my glad rags in themselves are eloquent advertisement of my need. Time and again, whenever opportunity offered, he hinted about the purpose of his business. But his admirers' ears were deaf. They sang his praises, told him what they had thought of his story at first sight, what they subsequently thought, what their wives and families thought; but not one hint did they breathe of intention to pay him for it.

"Did I tell you how I first read your story?" Mr. Ford said. "Of course I didn't. I was coming west from New York, and when the train stopped at Ogden, the train-boy on the new run brought aboard the current number of the TRANSCONTINENTAL."

My God! Martin thought; you can travel in a Pullman while I starve for the paltry five dollars you owe me. A wave of anger rushed over him. The wrong done him by the TRANSCONTINENTAL loomed colossal, for strong upon him were all the dreary months of vain yearning, of hunger and privation, and his present hunger awoke and gnawed at him, reminding him that he had eaten nothing since the day before, and little enough then. For the moment he saw red. These creatures were not even robbers. They were sneak-thieves. By lies and broken promises they had tricked him out of his story. Well, he would show them. And a great resolve surged into his will to the effect that he would not leave the office until he got his money. He remembered, if he did not get it, that there was no way for him to go back to Oakland. He controlled himself with an effort, but not before the wolfish expression of his face had awed and perturbed them.

They became more voluble than ever. Mr. Ford started anew to tell how he had first read "The Ring of Bells," and Mr. Ends at the same time was striving to repeat his niece's appreciation of "The Ring of Bells," said niece being a school-teacher in Alameda.

"I'll tell you what I came for," Martin said finally. "To be paid for that story all of you like so well. Five dollars, I believe, is what you promised me would be paid on publication."

Mr. Ford, with an expression on his mobile features of mediate and happy acquiescence, started to reach for his pocket, then turned suddenly to Mr. Ends, and said that he had left his money home. That Mr. Ends resented this, was patent; and Martin saw the twitch of his arm as if to protect his trousers pocket. Martin knew that the money was there.

"I am sorry," said Mr. Ends, "but I paid the printer not an hour ago, and he took my ready change. It was careless of me to be so short; but the bill was not yet due, and the printer's request, as a favor, to make an immediate advance, was quite unexpected."

Both men looked expectantly at Mr. White, but that gentleman laughed and shrugged his shoulders. His conscience was clean at any rate. He had come into the TRANSCONTINENTAL to learn magazine- literature, instead of which he had principally learned finance. The TRANSCONTINENTAL owed him four months' salary, and he knew that the printer must be appeased before the associate editor.

"It's rather absurd, Mr. Eden, to have caught us in this shape," Mr. Ford preambled airily. "All carelessness, I assure you. But I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll mail you a check the first thing in the morning. You have Mr. Eden's address, haven't you, Mr. Ends?"

Yes, Mr. Ends had the address, and the check would be mailed the first thing in the morning. Martin's knowledge of banks and checks was hazy, but he could see no reason why they should not give him the check on this day just as well as on the next.

"Then it is understood, Mr. Eden, that we'll mail you the check to- morrow?" Mr. Ford said.

"I need the money to-day," Martin answered stolidly.

"The unfortunate circumstances - if you had chanced here any other day," Mr. Ford began suavely, only to be interrupted by Mr. Ends, whose cranky eyes justified themselves in his shortness of temper.

"Mr. Ford has already explained the situation," he said with asperity. "And so have I. The check will be mailed - "

"I also have explained," Martin broke in, "and I have explained that I want the money to-day."

He had felt his pulse quicken a trifle at the business manager's brusqueness, and upon him he kept an alert eye, for it was in that gentleman's trousers pocket that he divined the TRANSCONTINENTAL'S ready cash was reposing.

"It is too bad - " Mr. Ford began.

But at that moment, with an impatient movement, Mr. Ends turned as if about to leave the room. At the same instant Martin sprang for him, clutching him by the throat with one hand in such fashion that Mr. Ends' snow-white beard, still maintaining its immaculate trimness, pointed ceilingward at an angle of forty-five degrees. To the horror of Mr. White and Mr. Ford, they saw their business manager shaken like an Astrakhan rug.

"Dig up, you venerable discourager of rising young talent!" Martin exhorted. "Dig up, or I'll shake it out of you, even if it's all in nickels." Then, to the two affrighted onlookers: "Keep away! If you interfere, somebody's liable to get hurt."

Mr. Ends was choking, and it was not until the grip on his throat was eased that he was able to signify his acquiescence in the digging-up programme. All together, after repeated digs, its trousers pocket yielded four dollars and fifteen cents.

"Inside out with it," Martin commanded.

An additional ten cents fell out. Martin counted the result of his raid a second time to make sure.

"You next!" he shouted at Mr. Ford. "I want seventy-five cents more."

Mr. Ford did not wait, but ransacked his pockets, with the result of sixty cents.

"Sure that is all?" Martin demanded menacingly, possessing himself of it. "What have you got in your vest pockets?"

In token of his good faith, Mr. Ford turned two of his pockets inside out. A strip of cardboard fell to the floor from one of them. He recovered it and was in the act of returning it, when Martin cried:-

"What's that? - A ferry ticket? Here, give it to me. It's worth ten cents. I'll credit you with it. I've now got four dollars and ninety-five cents, including the ticket. Five cents is still due me."

He looked fiercely at Mr. White, and found that fragile creature in the act of handing him a nickel.

"Thank you," Martin said, addressing them collectively. "I wish you a good day."

"Robber!" Mr. Ends snarled after him.

"Sneak-thief!" Martin retorted, slamming the door as he passed out.

Martin was elated - so elated that when he recollected that THE HORNET owed him fifteen dollars for "The Peri and the Pearl," he decided forthwith to go and collect it. But THE HORNET was run by a set of clean-shaven, strapping young men, frank buccaneers who robbed everything and everybody, not excepting one another. After some breakage of the office furniture, the editor (an ex-college athlete), ably assisted by the business manager, an advertising agent, and the porter, succeeded in removing Martin from the office and in accelerating, by initial impulse, his descent of the first flight of stairs.

"Come again, Mr. Eden; glad to see you any time," they laughed down at him from the landing above.

Martin grinned as he picked himself up.

"Phew!" he murmured back. "The TRANSCONTINENTAL crowd were nanny- goats, but you fellows are a lot of prize-fighters."

More laughter greeted this.

"I must say, Mr. Eden," the editor of THE HORNET called down, "that for a poet you can go some yourself. Where did you learn that right cross - if I may ask?"

"Where you learned that half-Nelson," Martin answered. "Anyway, you're going to have a black eye."

"I hope your neck doesn't stiffen up," the editor wished solicitously: "What do you say we all go out and have a drink on it - not the neck, of course, but the little rough-house?"

"I'll go you if I lose," Martin accepted.

And robbers and robbed drank together, amicably agreeing that the battle was to the strong, and that the fifteen dollars for "The Peri and the Pearl" belonged by right to THE HORNET'S editorial staff.

马丁的战斗节节败退。他尽量节省，可下锅之作的进项仍然入不敷出。感恩节时他的黑色拜客服又进了当铺，无法接受莫尔斯家的邀请去参加宴会。他不能参加宴会的理由使露丝很不高兴，这就逼得他破釜沉舟了。他告诉她他归根到底是准定会去的。他要到旧金山的《跨越大陆》杂志社去讨还他们欠他的五块钱，拿那钱去赎衣服。

早上他向玛利亚借了一毛钱——他倒愿意从布里森登借，但是那怪人却失踪了。马丁上次见他之后已经两个礼拜，他绞尽脑计要想出在什么地方得罪了他，却没有结果。那一毛钱让马丁过了轮渡，到了旧金山。在地沿着市场街走着的时候，心里考虑着要是收不到钱自己的狼狈处境。那他就无法回奥克兰了，而他在旧金山又没有熟人，没有地方再借一毛钱。

《跨越大陆》办公室的门虚掩着，马丁正打算开门，屋里突然高叫了起来，他急忙住了手。那声音在说：——

“可是问题不在这儿，福特先生！”（马丁从信函来往知道福特是编辑的名字。）问题在你们是否打算给钱？——现钱，现付，我的意思是。我对《跨越大陆》的远景和你打算明年把它办成什么样子不感兴趣。我要的是干工作得付报酬。而且我告诉你，现在就要。钱不到我手里，圣诞节这期《跨越大陆》就不开印。再见，有了钱再来找我。”

门猛地打开了，那人满脸怒气从马丁身边擦过，沿着走廊走去，嘴里骂着，擤着拳头。马丁决定暂不进去，他在门厅里逗留了半小时，这才推门进入。那是个新的体验，他是第一次进入一家编辑室。在那个办公室里显然用不着名片，因为那小厮到一间里屋去通报了有人要见福特先生，回来时半路就招呼他过去，然后引他进了那间个人办公室——编辑的专用房间。马丁的第一个印象是那屋子杂乱无章。然后他看见了一个长连鬓胡子的、相貌年轻的编辑坐在一张带卷边桌面的办公桌边，好奇地打量着他。马丁为他脸上的平静安详感到惊讶。和印刷商的吵闹显然没有扰乱他的方寸。

“找——我是马丁·伊登，”马丁开始了谈话。（他恨不得马上就悦：“我要我的那五块钱。”但这是他见到的第一个编辑，在当时情况下他不愿太意外地惊扰他。可令他大吃一惊的是，福特先生却跳了起来，叫道：“难道真是你么！”而且立即双手摸住他，和他热情洋溢地握起了来。

“见了你真有说不出的高兴，伊登先生。我常常在猜想你是个什么样子呢！”

此时他伸直手推开他，用喜气洋洋的眼睛打量起他那套次好的服装，也就是最差的服装来。那衣服褴褛得无法修补，虽然他用玛利亚的熨斗把裤子仔细熨出了棱角。

“不过，我得承认，找把你的年龄估计得大了许多。你的小说表现了］”阔的胸怀、气魄和成熟，还有思维的深度，是一部杰作——我只读了五六行就看出来了。让我来告诉你我最初是怎么读到的吧。不过，别忙，让我先介绍你和我的同事们认识。”

福特先生说着话领他进了大办公室，把他介绍给了副编辑怀传先生，一个细瘦的衰弱的小个于，手仿佛在发寒病，冷得奇特，稀稀落落的连鬓胡闪着丝一样的光。

“还有恩孜先生，这是伊登先生。恩孜先生是我们的业务经理，你知道。”

马丁发现和自己握手的是一个目光闪烁不定的秃头。那人脸上看得见的部分显得年轻——大部分面孔都叫雪白的胡须遮住了。那胡须修剪得很仔细——是他的妻子星期天修的，她也修剪了他的后颈窝。

三个人包围了马丁，一律说起赞扬的话来，直说到马丁感觉他们曾打过赌，比赛谁说话最卖劲。

“我们常常奇怪你怎么不来看看我们。”怀特先生说。

“我没有车费，我住在海湾对面，”马丁开门见山地说，想让他们明白他迫切地需要钱。

当然，他心想，我这身漂亮的破衣服本身就是强有力的广告，可以告诉他们找多么需要钱。

一有机会他就向他们暗示他此来的目的。他一再暗示，阻他的崇拜者们却是些聋子。他们大唱着赞歌，告诉他他们第一眼看见他的作品时是如何想的，以后又是如何想的，他们的老婆和家里人又是如何想的。只是一点点也没有表示给他稿费的意思。

“我告诉了你我是怎么第一次读你的作品的么？”福特先生说，“当然，还没有。我从纽约往西回来，火车到了奥格登，下一班乘务员把最新一期《跨越大陆》拿上了火车。”

天呀！你倒在坐豪华列车旅行，我却在为你们欠我的那可怜的五块钱挨饿。一阵怒火猛然升起，《跨越大陆》叫他受的委屈急剧膨胀，多少个月来他凄凄凉凉空空地等待，忍饥受苦，现在他的饥饿也醒了过来，咬啮着他，提醒他他从昨天就没有吃饭，而最后的那一顿也吃得很少。他不禁发起狂来。这些家伙甚至不是强盗，而是鬼鬼祟祟的小偷。他们用谎言和空头许诺骗走了他的小说。哼，他得给他们个好看。他下定了最大的决心不拿到钱决不离开办公室。他又想起如果得不到钱他就无法回到奥克兰去。他努力克制住自己，可他脸上那狼一样的表情已经吓得他们心慌意乱。

他们越来越夸夸其谈。福特先生重新谈起他第一次读到《钟声激越》的情况；恩孜先生也同时努力重复他的侄女对《钟声激越》的欣赏，并说他侄女在阿拉美达做教师。

“我来告诉你们我的来意吧，”马丁终于说了，“我是来拿你们大家都那么喜欢的那篇小说的稿费的。五块钱，我相信，这就是你们答应在发表之后给我的报酬。”

福特先生灵活的眉眼立即欢欢喜喜表示同意，伸手摸向口袋，却突然转身对恩孜先生说他把钱忘在家里了。恩孜先生显然不高兴；马丁看见他手一动，好像要保护他的裤子口袋，明白了他的钱就在那儿。

“对不起，”恩孜先生说，“可是我不到一小时以前付了印刷费，现金用光了。一不小心就拿不出钱了；支票还没有到期，印刷所老板却求我帮忙，立即预支给他。事出意外。”

两人都眼巴巴望着怀特先生，但是那位先生却笑了，耸了耸肩。他至少问心无愧。他当初到《跨越大陆》原想学习杂志文学，可到头来他主要学的却是财务周转。《跨越大陆》欠了他四个月的薪，他明白先得满足了印刷所老板才轮得到他这个副编辑。

“叫你撞见我们这种情况，真是有点荒乎其唐，伊登先生，”福特先生笑眯眯地说开了。“我向你保证，完全是意外，不过，我可以告诉你我们怎么办。明天早上我们第一件事就是给你寄支票去。你有伊登先生的地址的，是么，思孜先生？”

不错，恩孜先生有地址，明天早上第一件事就是寄支票。马丁对于银行和支票的事不大明白，可他也看不出他们有什么理由今天不给他支票，而要等到明天。

“那就是说，得到了伊登先生的谅解，明天给你寄去支票？”

“我今天就需要钱，”马丁顽强地说。

“情况太不巧了，你哪天来都——”福特先生彬彬有礼地说，却叫恩孜先生打断了。恩孜先生的急躁脾气证实了他那急躁的眼神。

“福特先生已经解释过了，”他粗暴地说，“我也讲得很明白。支票明天就——”

“我也已经解释过了，”马丁插嘴说，“我解释过我今天就得要钱。”

那位业务经理的蛮横使马丁的脉搏加快了跳动，同时他也警惕地注视着，因为他已经猜到《跨越大陆》的现金就躺在那家伙的裤子口袋里。

“非常不巧——”福特先生开始了。

这时恩孜先生却做了个不耐烦的动作，转过身去，好像打算开溜。马丁立即跳了过去，一手揪住了他的喉咙，揪得恩孜先生那依然一尘不染的白胡须向大花板翘起，呈四十五度角。怀特和福特两位先生看见他们的业务经理叫他像摇阿斯特拉罕地毯一样摇撼着，简直吓坏了。

“掏出来，你这压制年轻天才的老混蛋！”马丁追逼着，“掏呀，否则我就给你摇晃出来。哪怕全是五分的镍币也行。”然后又对那吓坏了的两位看客叫道，“让开！谁要来干涉，可别怪我不客气。”

恩孜先生呛得透不过气来，直到喉咙上的手放松了一些，才算说出了话，表示同意掏钱。他掏了又掏，从他的裤子口袋里一共掏出了四块一毛五分钱。

“翻口袋！”马丁命令。

又掉下来一毛钱。为了稳妥起见，马丁再数了一下他此番袭击的收入。

“你是下一个！”他对福特先生下达命令，“我还得收七毛五分。”

福特先生不敢怠慢，急忙掏腰包。掏出了六毛钱。

“就这么点？”马丁气势汹汹地追问，拿过了钱。“你背心口袋里有没有？”

为了表明心迹，福特先生把两个口袋都翻了过来。一张硬纸片从口袋里掉到地板上。他捡了起来，正要放回口袋，马丁叫道：——

“是什么？——轮渡票？这儿，给我，也值一毛钱呢。也算是你还的。我现在得到了四块九毛五，还差五分。”

他狠狠地望着怀特先生，望着那弱不禁风的先生递给他一个五分的镍币。

“谢谢，”马丁对他们三个人说，“再见。”

“强盗！”恩孜先生对着他的背影说。

“小偷！”马丁反驳说．砰地一声关上门，走了出去。

马丁飘飘然了，他想起《大黄蜂》还欠他十五块钱《仙女与珍珠》的稿费，决定如法炮制。但是《大黄蜂》却是一帮脸上刮得光光的健壮青年办的，都是些公然的海盗．谁都抢，什么都抢，连彼此都抢。打破了一些家具之后．编辑在业务经理和广告代理人和门房的有力协助下终于把马丁搡出了办公室，那最初的一搡竟把他送下了第一道阶梯。

“欢迎再来，马丁先生，欢迎你任何时候光临。”他们居高临下从梯口平台对他叫道。

马丁爬了起来，却咧开嘴笑着。

“嗨哟！”他对他们嘟哝道，“《跨越大陆》那帮人全是些母羊，你们倒是些拳击能手。”

回答他这话的是更多的笑声。

“我得说，伊登先生，”《大黄蜂》的编辑俯身叫道，“作为诗人你倒还真有两手。请问，你那手右推挡是从哪儿学来的？”

“就从你学到你那后锁颈的地方学来的，”马丁回答，“总之能打得你鼻青眼黑。”

“你脖子没有僵硬吧，我担心，”编辑关心地问，“咱们一块出去喝一杯庆祝庆祝怎么样？——当然不是庆祝脖子僵硬，是庆祝这一套开打戏。”

“我若是喝不过你们，就由我请客，”马丁接受了。

于是打劫的和被打劫的杯酒言和，双方亲切地同意了强者必胜的道理，《仙女与珍珠》那十五块钱稿费理所当然地归了《大黄蜂》编辑部。