Introduction By Ray Long
The Gay Old Dog By Edna Ferber
The Escape Of Mr. Trimm By Irvin S. Cobb
Point By Peter B. Kyne
Kazan By James Oliver Curwood
The Third Man By Meredith Nicholson
Money To Burns By H. C. Witwer
[Illustration: RAY LONG]
_INTRODUCTION by RAY LONG_
In presenting this volume to you I am imagining that I am host for an
evening. I have invited six of the distinguished writers of our time and
asked them to relax over their coffee and in a mood of friendliness to
discuss their own work. They have permitted me to have you sit with me
and listen.
An interesting group, surely. Miss Ferber, black-haired, dark-eyed,
vivid, animation itself; Irvin Cobb, tall, heavy-set, with, as his
daughter says, two chins in front and a spare in the rear; Peter B.
Kyne, about five foot six, with the face and figure of a well-fed
priest; Jim Curwood, tall, wiry, outdoorsy in every line and movement;
Nicholson, my idea of an ambassador to the Court of St. James; Harry
Witwer, with the poise and quickness that one learns in the ring. (He
did fight as a youngster; that's why he can make you see a prize ring
when he describes it.)
Yes, an interesting group. Just as interesting to me today, after years
of friendship, as to you, who may meet them for the first time. The sort
of folks that wear well. The sort that haven't been spoiled by success.
For each of them realizes the simplicity of the recipe that won his
success. It can be told in few words: _Think better and work harder than
your competitor._
If you get to know these authors well, you will see that is all there
has been to it: they have thought better and worked harder than the
other fellow. And they are still doing it--thinking better and working
harder: that's why their success endures. That's why their names are
trade-marks for interesting, satisfying reading matter. As the
manufacturer who establishes a trade-mark must not let his product
deteriorate, lest he lose his customers, just so the successful writer
must keep his product to high standard lest he lose his readers.
I have asked each of the six to tell you which of all the stories he has
written he likes best, but before they begin let me tell you what
inspired my request.
I grow irritated every now and then when some self-appointed critic
arises to say that he has selected the best short stories for the year.
What he means, of course, is that he has selected the stories which _in
his opinion_ are best. More often than not, his opinion is worthless; it
may even be harmful. For if those studying for a career in writing
accept his views, they may be misled in what really constitutes the
story of distinction.
In this discussion there will be no effort to say that these stories
excel in any year. What they represent is the selection by each of six
authors of his own story which he likes best of all he has written. And
inasmuch as each of these writers has been years at his trade, this
forms a collection not only interesting to you and myself, but
informative and valuable to the student of writing.
Distinction in writing is determined by one test: endurance in public
favor. Not the favor of any one or two persons, but of the great mass of
readers.
A critic here and there may--and often does--select some writer of
freakish material and call him a genius, but that sort of genius is
short-lived.
Freakish writing never lasts. Individual manner of telling a story,
yes--that is essential to distinction. But individuality that endures
results from personality that pleases.
No matter how much it may interest you to see a freak in a side-show,
you would not want one as a lifelong friend. No matter how much it may
interest you to see a piece of freakish writing, you would not keep it
handy on your library shelves or table. As a curiosity, possibly; as a
companion, never.
You will want lifelong friendship with the stories of the six writers
here. They are real writing by real writers. And I am proud of the
privilege of introducing you thus informally to these six writers, just
as I am proud of the fact that they are such vital factors in the
success of Cosmopolitan Magazine under my editorship. I think I may
boast that no editor ever brought together a more distinguished group.
But enough of myself and my views. Let's listen to my guests.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: EDNA FERBER]
_FOREWORD_
_Most writers lie about the way in which they came to write this or that
story. I know I do. Perhaps, though, this act can't quite be classified
as lying. It is not deliberate falsifying. Usually we roll a
retrospective eye while weaving a fantastic confession that we actually
believe to be true. It is much as when a girl says to her sweetheart,
"When did you begin to love me?" and he replies, "Oh, it was the very
first time I saw you, when----" etc. Which probably isn't true at all.
But he thinks it is, and she wants to think it is. And that makes it
almost true._
_It is almost impossible to tell just how a story was born. The process
is such an intricate, painful, and complicated one. Often the idea that
makes up a story is only a nucleus. The finished story may represent an
accumulation of years. It was so in the case of the short story entitled
"The Gay Old Dog."_
_I like "The Gay Old Dog" better than any other short story I've written
(though I've a weakness for "Old Man Minick") because it is a human
story without being a sentimental one; because it presents a picture of
everyday American family life; because its characters are of the type
known as commonplace, and I find the commonplace infinitely more
romantic and fascinating than the bizarre, the spectacular, the rich, or
the poor; it is a story about a man's life, and I like to write about
men; because it is a steadily progressive thing; because its ending is
inevitable._
_It seems to me that I first thought of this character as short-story
material (and my short stories are almost invariably founded on
character, rather than on plot or situation) when I read in a Chicago
newspaper that the old Windsor Hotel, a landmark, was to be torn down.
The newspaper carried what is known as a feature story about this. The
article told of a rather sporty old Chicago bachelor who had lived at
this hotel for years. Its red plush interior represented home for him.
Now he was to be turned out of his hotel refuge. The papers called him
The Waif of the Loop. That part of Chicago's downtown which is encircled
by the elevated tracks is known as the Loop. I thought, idly, that here
was short-story material; the story of this middle-aged, well-to-do
rounder whose only home was a hotel. Why had he lived there all these
years? Was he happy? Why hadn't he married? I put it down in my
note-book (yes, we have them)--The Waif of the Loop. Later I discarded
that title as being too cumbersome and too difficult to grasp.
Non-Chicagoans wouldn't know what the Loop meant._
_So there it was in my note-book. A year or two went by. In all I think
that story must have lain in my mind for five years before I actually
wrote it. That usually is the way with a short story that is rich, deep,
and true. The maturing process is slow. It ripens in the mind. In such
cases the actual mechanical matter of writing is a brief business. It
plumps into the hand like a juicy peach that has hung, all golden and
luscious, on the tree in the sun._
_From time to time I found myself setting down odd fragments related
vaguely to this character. I noticed these overfed, gay-dog men of
middle age whom one sees in restaurants, at the theater, accompanied,
usually, by a woman younger than they--a hard, artificial expensively
gowned woman who wears a diamond bracelet so glittering that you
scarcely notice the absence of ornament on the third finger of the left
hand. Bits of characterization went into the note-book . . . "The kind
of man who knows head waiters by name . . . the kind of man who insists
on mixing his own salad dressing . . . he was always present on first
nights, third row, aisle, right." I watched them. They were lonely,
ponderous, pathetic, generous, wistful, drifting._
_Why hadn't he married? Why hadn't he married? It's always interesting
to know why people have missed such an almost universal experience as
marriage. Well, he had had duties, responsibilities. Um-m-m--a mother,
perhaps, and sisters. Unmarried sisters to support. The thing to do then
was to ferret out some business that began to decline in about 1896 and
that kept going steadily downhill. A business of the sort to pinch Jo's
household and make the upkeep of two families impossible for him. It
must, too, be a business that would boom suddenly, because of the War,
when Jo was a middle-aged man. I heard of a man made suddenly rich in
1914 when there came a world-wide demand for leather--leather for
harnesses, straps, men's wrist watches. Slowly, bit by bit, the story
began to set--to solidify--to take shape._
_Finally, that happened which always reassures me and makes me happy and
confident. The last paragraph of the story came to me, complete. I set
down that last paragraph, in lead pencil, before the first line of the
story was written. That ending literally wrote itself. I had no power
over it. People have said to me: "Why didn't you make Emily a widow when
they met after years of separation? Then they could have married."_
_The thing simply hadn't written itself that way. It was unchangeable.
The end of the story and the beginning both were by now inevitable. I
knew then that no matter what happened in the middle, that story would
be--perhaps not a pleasant story, nor a happy one, though it might
contain humor--but a story honest, truthful, courageous and human._
[Illustration]
_The_ GAY OLD DOG[1]