“Then, the next morning, when we reported for work at the studio, we found it locked. I was sorry for our company. Even the principals seemed to be in need of money. Mr. Quiss was very kind to me. He offered to pay my fare back home. But I wouldn’t go. Mr. Donnell offered to lend me ten dollars, but I told him I had twenty. He gave me a nice letter to the Elite Agency. Mr. Quiss promised to keep me in mind. But the agencies tell me that all the film companies are letting their people go this summer. I can’t seem to find any work. They tell me there won’t be any work until October.... I’m saving my twenty dollars. And I’m wondering what I shall find to do to keep busy until October.... Even if I could afford a room, I don’t need it. It is too hot in New York to sleep indoors.... I can wash my face and hands in the ladies’ room of any hotel. I give the maid five cents.... But I don’t know what to do for a bath. I must do something.... I shall hire a room for a day and wash myself and my clothes.... You see, twenty dollars doesn’t go very far in New York.... I wonder how far I can go on it.... Do you know what would be the very cheapest way to live on twenty dollars until October?” After a silence Annan said: “I owe you ten for your story. That makes thirty dollars.” “Oh. But I can’t take money from _you_!” “Why?” “I haven’t earned it. I had no story to tell you. I’ve only talked to you.” Annan, sitting cross-legged on the grass, clasped his knees with both arms. He said, coolly: “I offered you ten dollars for your story. That was too little to offer for such a story. It’s worth more.” “Why, it isn’t worth anything,” she retorted. “I hadn’t any story to tell you. I shan’t let you give me money just because I’ve talked to you.” “Can you guess how much I shall be paid by my newspaper for writing out this story you have told me?” he asked, smiling at her in the starlight. She shook her head. “Well, I won’t bother you with details; but your commission in this transaction will be considerable. Your commission will amount to a hundred dollars.” She sat so rigid and unstirring that he leaned a little toward her to see her expression. It was flushed and hostile. “Do you think I am joking?” he asked. “I don’t know what you are doing.” He said: “I’m not mean enough to make a joke of your predicament. I’m telling you very honestly that I can construct a first-rate short story out of the story you have just told me. I’m workman enough to do it. That’s my job. “Every week I write a short story for the Sunday edition of the New York _Planet_. My stories have become popular. My name is becoming rather well known. I am now paid so well for my stories that I can afford to pay well for the idea you have given me. Your story is full of ideas, and it’s worth about a hundred dollars to me.”