'Mr Boice,' he said, firmly if huskily, and a good deal louder than was desirable, here in the post-office, within ear-shot of the moneyorder window--'Mr Boice, what I want from you won't take two minutes of your time. You'd better tell me, right now, whether I'm worth ten dollars a week to the _Voice_. Beginning this week. If I'm not--I'll hand in my string Saturday and quit. Think I can't do better'n this! I wonder! You wait till about next November. Maybe I'll show the whole crowd of you a thing or two! Maybe----' For the second time on this remarkable day the unexpected happened to and through Norton P. Boice. Slowly, with an effort and a grunt, he got to his feet. Colour appeared in his face, above the whiskers. He pointed a huge, knobby finger at the door. 'Get out of here!' he roared. 'And stay out!' Henry hesitated, swung away, turned back to face him; finally obeyed. Jobless, stirred by a rather fascinating sense of utter catastrophe, thinking with a sudden renewal of exultation about Corinne, Henry wandered up to the Y.M.C.A. rooms and idly, moodily, practise shooting crokinole counters. Shortly he wandered out. An overpowering restlessness was upon him. He wanted desperately to do something, but didn't know what it could be. It was as if a live wild animal, caged within his breast, was struggling to get out. He walked over to the rooms; threw off his coat; tried fooling at the piano; gave it up and took to pacing the floor. There were peculiar difficulties here, in the big living-room. Corinne had spent an evening here. She had sat in this chair and that, had danced over the hardwood floor, had smiled on him. The place, without Her, was painfully empty. He knew now that he wanted to write. But he didn't know what. The wild animal was a story. Or a play. Or a poem. Perhaps the poem Corinne had begged for. He stood in the middle of the room, closed his eyes, and saw and felt Corinne close to him. It was a mad but sweet reverie. Yes, surely it was the poem! He found pencil and paper--a wad of copy paper, and curled up in the window-seat. Things were not right. Not yet. He was the victim of wild forces. They were tearing at him. It was no longer restlessness--it was a mighty passion. It was uncomfortable and thrilling. Queer that the impulse to write should come so overwhelmingly without giving him, so far, a hint as to what he was to write. Yet it was not vague. He had to do it. And at once. Find the right place and go straight at it. It would come out. It would have to come out. 7 Mr Boice came heavily into the Voice office and sank into his creaking chair by the front window. Humphrey went swiftly, steadily through galley after galley of proof. Humphrey had the trained eye that can pick out an inverted _u_ in a page of print at three feet. He smoked his cob pipe as he worked. Mr Boice drew a few sheets of copy paper from a pigeonhole, took up a pencil in his stiff fingers, and gazed down over his whiskers.