He shook his head. "It withers soon after it is plucked. You had better carry a sealed jar of water with you on your tramps." Resignation came to me with that speech. My own folly had brought me where I was, and my spirit suddenly rose up to meet the emergency. "I'll go, 'Crombie," I said. "Thank you for your prescription." CHAPTER TWO IN WHICH I GO TO 'CROMBIE AGAIN 'Crombie had said with chilling frankness that I hadn't the money for a sea voyage, or for extended travel. The statement was distressingly true. Just at the time he and I finished our college careers, my father died. Contrary to general belief, and my own as well, he was almost a bankrupt. It was the old story of the frenzy for gain, great risks, and total loss. 'Crombie took up medicine, while I, lured by the promises of a fickle Fate, embraced literature. 'Crombie was wise; I was foolish. When people are sick they always want a doctor, but when they are idle they do not always read. If there is one road to the poorhouse which is freer from obstructions than all others, it is the road of the unknown author. I had a natural bent toward letters, had been editor-in-chief of the college magazine, and had sold two or three stories to middle-class periodicals. So, with the roseate illusions of youth at their flood, I pictured myself soon among the front rank of American writers, and equipped myself for a speedy conquest. In six months I had sold a half dozen stories, for something approaching one hundred dollars, and had received enough rejection slips to paper one room. To this use I applied them, taking a doleful sort of pleasure in reading the punctilious printed messages with their eternal refrain of "We regret, etc." I wondered if the editors were as sorry as they pretended to be. And I thought, too, of the enormousness of their stationery bills. But I persevered. The ten years which followed my embarkation upon this treacherous sea were not entirely barren of results. I managed to live frugally, which was something, and established gratifying relations with two or three magazines which bought my manuscripts with encouraging regularity. At last I placed a book with a reputable publishing house. The story fell flat from the press. The firm lost, and I did not receive a penny. The experience was bitter. I had spent a solid year writing that book, and I felt that if I could get a hearing my period of probation would be over. I got the hearing, and I was still in obscurity. That is the typical literary beginning, and he who finally succeeds deserves all he gets, for he has a heart of oak. My inherent optimism and stubborn will bore me safely through the mists and shallows of defeat, and with the sunlight of hope once more flooding my soul, I went on. Then 'Crombie handed me my commuted death sentence.