But it had its compensations. She could see the jacket copy for the novel now: "_Spraddled Evening_ is an odd book, written at odd times in odd places. Begun in a shabby trailer outside a Mississippi Army camp--" She grimaced, remembering how perfectly foul Ritchie had been when she'd had story conferences with Don while Ritchie was restricted to the post--"it was shaped and polished by turns in the club car of a transcontinental train, a cold-water flat in the East Bronx, a luxury resort hotel and a Jersey fishing village, reaching its evocative climax while Miss Froman was--" Well, that you would have to wait and see, thought Miss Froman, taking page 2 out of the typewriter. But the end was almost in sight. The first chapter set the tone for the whole book; and now that that was nearly perfect it was only a dash to the finish line. She lit a cigarette from the candle before she put page three into the typewriter. Page three was the one that would do Hesch in the eye. He'd be sure to recognize the savagely drawn, feudal-minded pants presser if he read it--and he'd be goddam sure to read it, if he had to hock the watch she'd given him to get the price. Sixty bucks that watch had cost out of her share of his Christmas bonus, and it was the only decent thing he owned. "So why doesn't he sell it," she demanded of the wind, "if he's so broke he can't keep up the alimony?" She knew as soon as she heard the knock on the door that it was Mrs. Goudeket. The chapter went into the bulging file under the bed; the half-page beginning on the story about Dick McCue went into the typewriter, using the paper bail so Old Bat-Ears wouldn't hear the ratchet clicking. "Come in, please," she called, with just the proper annoyance at being interrupted. She glanced coldly at her employer. Mrs. Goudeket sat down without waiting to be asked; those stairs were getting steeper every day. "Sharon, honey," she wheezed, "I want you to do me a favor. Frankly, I'm a little worried." Sharon listened with minimal courtesy. Unbelievable, she thought to herself, now the old harpy expected her to go driving out in this crazy rain to find out if it was really raining. So suppose she got into Hebertown, what could she find out? The lines were down? They knew that. And what else could there conceivably be? Since it was a point of principle, she knew what she had to say. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Goudeket," she said gently. "It just isn't my job." Besides, the season was practically over; so let Old Bat-Ears fire her. "Aw, Sharon," wheedled Mrs. Goudeket. "Who else have I got? Believe me, it's not for me, it's for all of us. Suppose--" "No." "No!" shrilled Mrs. Goudeket. "I feed you the whole summer, for what? One little thing I want you to do, and what do I get? Listen here, young lady, I'm telling you for the last time--" It went on for ten minutes, during which Mrs. Goudeket quite forgot to worry about the storm.