For some reason, in the next few days, my thoughts drifted about with astonishing ease and made prodigious journeys. I roved far back to my childhood, and there the most tempting incidents rose, and solemn little thoughts and terrors, hopes and plans, some I was proud of, some mighty ashamed of. Roots, roots, up they came, as though they'd just been waiting, down there deep inside of me, for that girl and her hoeing. Presently, just to get rid of them all, I began writing some of them down. And again I was surprised to find that I was in fine writing trim. The words seemed to come of themselves from my pen and line themselves up triumphantly into scenes of amazing vividness. At least so they looked to me. How good it felt to be at it again. Often up in my room at night I kept on working till nearly dawn. I was getting on famously now. * * * * * And so now, as was his habit, Joe Kramer came crashing into my life and as usual put a stop to my work. Having just landed from Russia, he had "breezed over" to our house, had had a talk with Sue downstairs and had then come up to my room to surprise me--just as I had a good firm grip on one of my most entrancing roots. "Hello, Bill," he cried. "What are you up to?" "Hello, J. K. How are you?" I knew that I ought to be genial, and for a few moments I did my best. I went through all the motions. I grabbed his hand, I smiled, I talked, I told him I was tickled to death, I even tried pounding him on the back. But it was quite useless. "Kid," he said with that grin of his, "you're up to something idealistic and don't want to be disturbed. But I'm here and it can't be helped. So out with it--what have you gone and done?" And he jerked my story out of me. "All right," he declared, "this has got to stop!" "I knew it," I said. I had known it the minute he came in the room. "You've got to throw up your ten-dollar job, quit working all night on stuff that won't sell, and come on a paper and make some real money." "I can't do it," I snapped. "You can," said J. K. "But I tell you I tried! I went to a paper----" "You'll go to a dozen before I get through!" "J. K.--I won't do it" "Kid--you will!" And he kept at me night after night. He was working for a New York paper now as a special correspondent. He had a talk with his editor and got me a chance to go on as a "cub" and write about weddings, describing the costume of the bride. At least it was a starter, he said, and would lead to divorces later on, and from there I might be promoted to graft. He talked to Sue and my father about it, persuading them both to take his side. Day by day the pressure increased. I set my young jaw doggedly and kept on writing about my roots. "Look here," said Joe one evening. "Your sister tells me you're sore on the harbor. Then have a look at this." And he showed me a newspaper clipping headed, "Padrone System Under the Dumps." "Well, what about it?" I asked him.