Vance reddened as he said that he had asked and been turned down. The publishers claimed that they were advertising the book at a dead loss, that the sales hadn't been much bigger than they had expected; but that they "believed" in Vance's future, and were ready to risk some money on it—a pure speculation, they declared. So they really couldn't do more.

Frenside gave a contemptuous wave of his pipe. "That's what the small publishers call 'business,' and why they never get to be big ones. Pity you're tied up to them. However—" He paused, and Vance felt that he was being searchingly scrutinized from under those jutting brows. "And you'd be glad of a loan, I gather? Have you—put the matter before Tarrant?"

"Oh, no—I couldn't," Vance interrupted in a thick voice.

Frenside nodded, as if that were not wholly a surprise. "See here, young fellow, I believe you've got the stuff in you, and I'd like to help you. I'm never very flush myself; I daresay my appearance and my surroundings make that fairly obvious. But if a hundred would be any good—"

He made a motion to pull himself up out of his chair; but Vance raised a hand to check him. A hundred dollars—any good? God … his mouth watered … But somehow he didn't want to take the money; didn't want their inspiriting talk to end in the awkwardness of pocketing a cheque; didn't, above all, want to overshadow the possibility of future talks by an obligation he might be unable to meet. He must keep this spiritual sanctuary clear of the moneylenders' booths.

"Thank you," he stammered. "But no, honest, I couldn't … I mean, I guess I can make out… ." He stood up, and looked Frenside in the eyes. "When I get the chance to talk to you I'd rather it was about my work. Nothing else matters, after all… ."

Frenside rose also. "Well, I've got to pack you off now and get into harness myself." He pointed to the papers on his desk. "But come back when you can," he added. "And wait a minute—let me give you a cocktail … I daresay you can operate the shaker better than I can… . Here's to your next."

Chapter 2

Vance walked away with a conquering step. Frenside had set his blood circulating. "I believe you've got the stuff in you"—when a man like Frenside said it, all the depths cried out in answer. "Loot—Loot—Loot—a big American novel; that's what I've got to do," Vance sang, almost shouted to himself, as he trudged homeward in the dusk.