His first impulse was to go through all his accumulated papers, to resee them in this new faint ray. He skimmed over the pages of his novel, found it shapeless, helpless—more so even than he had feared—and remembered another tonic phrase of Frenside's: the curt "I thought so," in reply to Vance's confession that he was attempting a novel, and then the injunction: "If ever you try a short story send it along." What a pity he hadn't tried one, instead of this impossible unwieldy novel! And then, as he sat there, fumbling with fragments of dead prose, his hand lit on a dozen typed pages, clipped together, and a little frayed at the edges. He'd forgotten he had that with him… . "One Day"—the thing he'd written in a kind of frenzy, after his fever, when he couldn't find his father's revolver. How long ago all that seemed! There had been weeks when he couldn't have looked at those pages, could barely have touched them; and now he was turning on them an eye almost as objective as George Frenside's… .

You couldn't call it a short story, he supposed. It was just the headlong outpouring of what he had felt and suffered during those few hours—like a fellow who'd been knocked down and run over trying to tell you what it felt like. That was all. But somehow the sentences moved, the words seemed alive—if he'd had to do it again he didn't know that he'd have done it very differently. It didn't amount to much, but still he felt as if it was his own, not the work of two or three other fellows, like the novel. A sudden impulse seized him: he wrapped up the manuscript, addressed it to Frenside, put his own name and address below, and carried the packet back to the office of The Hour. He hadn't the courage to go in with it, but slipped it into the letter box and walked away.