'All right, Hump. Only I'm excited, sorta. You see, it just struck me that there's as much romance right here on Simpson Street as there is in Kipling's Hills or Bagdad or Paris. Just the way people's lives go. And what old Berger's really thinking about when he tells you the vegetables were picked yesterday.' Humphrey gazed--wider awake now--at the wild figure before him. And a thrill stirred his heart. This boy was supposed to be crushed. 'How much have you done?' he asked soberly. 'Most finished this first one. It's about old Boice and Charlie Waterhouse and Mr Weston----' 'Gee!' said Humphrey. 'I call it, _The Caliph of Simpson Street_.' 'Well--see here, you're going to bed, aren't you?' 'Oh, yes. But listen.' And he began reading aloud. Humphrey waved his arms. 'No, no! For heaven's sake, go to bed, Hen!' 'Well, but--oh, say! Just thought of something!' And he went out, chuckling. Humphrey awoke again at eight. Through his open door came a light that was not altogether of the sun. The incident of the earlier morning came to him in confused form, like a dream. He sprang out of bed. There, still bending over the atlas, was Henry. The sheets of paper lay like drifts of snow about him now. His pencil was flying. He looked up. His face was white and red in spots now. He was grinning, apparently out of sheer happiness. 'Say,' he cried, 'listen to this! It's one I call, _The Cauliflowers of the Caliph_. Oh, by the way, I've changed the title of the book to _Satraps of the Simple_. 'The whole book'll be sort of imaginary, like that. It's queer. Just as if it came to be out of the air. Things I never thought of in my life. Only everything I ever knew's going into it. Things I'd forgotten.' 'Hen,' said Humphrey, 'are you stark mad?' 'Me? Why--why no, Hump!' The grin was a thought sheepish now. 'But--well, Bob McGibbon said we needed stuff for the paper.' 'How many stories have you written already?' 'Just three.' '_Three!_ In one night!' 'But they're short, Hump. I don't believe-they average over two or three thousand words. I think they're good. You know, just the way they made me feel. Funny idea--Bagdad and Simpson Street, all mixed up together.' 'One thing's certain, Hen. You're an extremely surprising youth, but right here's where you quit. I don't propose to have a roaring maniac here in the rooms. On my hands.' 'Oh, Hump, I can't quit now! You don't understand. It's wonderful. It just comes. Like taking dictation.' 'Dictation is what you're going to take. Right now. From me. Brush up your clothes, and pick up all that mess while I dress. We'll go out for some breakfast.' 'Not now, Hump! Wait--I promise I'll go out a little later.' 'You'll go now. Get up.' Henry obeyed. But he nearly fell back again. 'Gosh!' he murmured. 'Stiff, eh?' 'I should smile. And sorta weak.' 'No wonder. Come on, now! And I want your promise that after breakfast you'll go straight to bed.' 'Hump, I can't.'