His first real literary success, that which temporarily lifted him into the outer circle of the limelight of fame, was a poem written the day following that upon which came the news of the sinking of the Lusitania. Captain Zelotes came back from the post-office that morning, a crumpled newspaper in his hand, and upon his face the look which mutinous foremast hands had seen there just before the mutiny ended. Laban Keeler was the first to notice the look. “For the land sakes, Cap'n, what's gone wrong?” he asked. The captain flung the paper upon the desk. “Read that,” he grunted. Labe slowly spread open the paper; the big black headlines shrieked the crime aloud. “Good God Almighty!” exclaimed the little bookkeeper. Captain Zelotes snorted. “He didn't have anything to do with it,” he declared. “The bunch that pulled that off was handled from the other end of the line. And I wish to thunder I was young enough to help send 'em back there,” he added, savagely. That evening Albert wrote his poem. The next day he sent it to a Boston paper. It was published the following morning, spread across two columns on the front page, and before the month was over had been copied widely over the country. Within the fortnight its author received his first request, a bona fida request for verse from a magazine. Even Captain Lote's praise of the Lusitania poem was whole-hearted and ungrudging. That summer was a busy one in South Harniss. There was the usual amount of summer gaiety, but in addition there were the gatherings of the various committees for war relief work. Helen belonged to many of these committees. There were dances and theatrical performances for the financial benefit of the various causes and here Albert shone. But he did not shine alone. Helen Kendall was very popular at the social gatherings, popular not only with the permanent residents but with the summer youth as well. Albert noticed this, but he did not notice it so particularly until Issy Price called his attention to it. “Say, Al,” observed Issy, one afternoon in late August of that year, “how do YOU like that Raymond young feller?” Albert looked up absently from the page of the daybook. “Eh? What?” he asked. “I say how do YOU like that Eddie Raymond, the Down-at-the-Neck one?” “Down at the neck? There's nothing the matter with his neck that I know of.” “Who said there was? He LIVES down to the Neck, don't he? I mean that young Raymond, son of the New York bank man, the ones that's had the Cahoon house all summer. How do you like him?” Albert's attention was still divided between the day-book and Mr. Price. “Oh, I guess he's all right,” he answered, carelessly. “I don't know him very well. Don't bother me, Issy, I'm busy.” Issachar chuckled. “He's busy, too,” he observed. “He, he, he! He's busy trottin' after Helen Kendall. Don't seem to have time for much else these days. Noticed that, ain't you, Al? He, he!”