This accomplishment brought a respite. He could see his book clearly now. The cover, the title page and particularly the final sentence. He knew that the concluding story was to be called _The Old Man of the Street_. He printed out this title; printed, too, several titles of others yet to be written--_Ali Anderson and the Four Policemen_ and _Scheherazade in a Livery Stable_, and one or two more. His next performance I find particularly interesting in retrospect. During the long two years of his extreme self-suppression in the vital matters of candy, girls, and charge-accounts, Henry had firmly refused to sing. Without a murmur he had foregone the four or five dollars a Sunday he could easily have picked up in church quartet work, the occasional sums from substituting in this or that male quartet and singing at funerals. It was even more extraordinary that he should have given up, as he did, his old habit of singing to girls. The only explanation he had ever offered of this curious stand was the rather obscure one he gave Humphrey that singing was 'too physical.' Whatever the real complex of motives, it had been a rather violent, or at least a complete reaction. But now he strode about the room, chin up, chest expanded, brows puckered, roaring out scales and other vocalisings in his best voice. The results naturally were somewhat disappointing, after the long silence, but he kept at it. He was still roaring, half an hour later, when McGibbon came anxiously in. 'Saw Humphrey Weaver down-town,' said the editor of the _Gleaner_, 'and he said I'd better look you up.' An hour later McGibbon--red spots in his cheeks, a nervous glitter in his eyes--hurried down to the _Gleaner_ office with the pencilled manuscripts of four of the 'Caliph' stories. He was hurrying because it seemed to him highly important to get them into type. For one thing, something might happen to them--fire, anything. For another, it might occur to Henry to sell them to an eastern magazine. When Humphrey came in, just before six, Henry was already well into _Scheherazade in a Livery Stable_, and was chuckling out loud as he wrote. Friday night was press night at the _Gleaner_ office. Henry strolled in about ten o'clock and carelessly dropped a thick roll of script on McGibbon's desk. That jaded editor leaned back, ran thin fingers through his tousled hair, and wearily looked over the dishevelled, yawning, exhausted, grinning youth before him. Never in his life had he seen an expression of such utter happiness on a human face. 'How many stories is this?' he asked. 'Ten.' 'Good Lord! That's a whole book!'