‘That reminds me,’ I said. ‘I wonder if you could pay the money I loaned you.’

‘Haven’t got it,’ he said.

‘Could you pay me a portion of it — say ten cents?’

He shook his head.

‘A nickel?’

‘I’m broke, kid.’

Then he took another swig. It was a fresh bottle, almost full.

‘I can’t give you any hard cash, kid. But I’ll see that you get all the milk you need.’ Then he explained. The milkman would arrive around four. I was to stay awake and listen for his knock. Hellfrick would keep the milkman occupied for at least twenty minutes. It was a bribe, a means of escaping payment of the debt, but I was hungry.

‘But you ought to pay your debts, Hellfrick. You’d be in a bad spot if I was charging you interest.’

‘I’ll pay you, kid,’ he said. ‘I’ll pay every last penny, just as soon as I can.’

I walked back to my room, slamming Hellfrick’s door angrily. I didn’t wish to seem cruel about the matter, but this was going too far. I knew the gin he drank cost him at least thirty cents a pint. Surely he could control his craving for alcohol long enough to pay his just debts.

The night came reluctantly. I sat at the window, rolling some cigarettes with rough cut tobacco and squares of toilet paper. This tobacco had been a whim of mine in more prosperous times. I had bought a can of it, and the pipe for smoking it had been free, attached to the can by a rubber band. But I had lost the pipe. The tobacco was so coarse it made a poor smoke in regular cigarette papers, but wrapped twice in toilet tissue it was powerful and compact, sometimes bursting into flames.

The night came slowly, first the cool odour of it, and then the darkness. Beyond my window spread the great city, the street lamps, the red and blue and green neon tubes bursting to life like bright night flowers. I was not hungry, there were plenty of oranges under the bed, and that mysterious chortling in the pit of my stomach was nothing more than great clouds of tobacco smoke marooned there, trying frantically to find a way out.

So it had happened at last: I was about to become a thief, a cheap milk-stealer. Here was your flash-in-the-pan genius, your one-story-writer: a thief. I held my head in my hands and rocked back and forth. Mother of God. Headlines in the papers, promising writer caught stealing milk, famous protege of J. C. Hackmuth hauled into court on petty thief charge, reporters swarming around me, flashlights popping, give us a statement, Bandini, how did it happen? Well, fellows, it was like this: you see, I’ve really got plenty of money, big sales of manuscripts and all that, but I was doing a yarn about a fellow who steals a quart of milk, and I wanted to write from experience, so that’s what happened, fellows. Watch for the story in the Post, I’m calling it ‘Milk Thief’. Leave me your address and I’ll send you all free copies.