It was seven o'clock at night when I first struck New York. I had come
from a Middle Western town to make my fortune as a writer, and I was
already discouraged. I knew no one in the Big City, and had been
counting on my membership in the National Geographic Society to find
me friends among my fellow-members in town. But I soon discovered that
the fraternity spirit in the East was much less cordial than in my
home district, and I realized, too late, that I was all alone.
With a few coins that my father had slipped into my hand as I left
home, I engaged a tiny suite at the St. Regis and there set about my
writing.
The first 10,000 manuscripts which I sent out, I now have. (I am at
present working them over into a serial for the _Saturday Evening
Post_ weekly, from which I expect to make $25,000). But that is
beside the point. For the purposes of the present narrative, I was a
failure. The manager of the hotel was pressing me for my rent, which
was already several hours overdue. I had not tipped the chamber-maid
since breakfast. I sat looking out at my window, staring at the
squalid wall of the Hotel Ritz. I had met New York face to face--and I
had lost.
No, not lost! There was still one chance left I sat down and, with
feverish haste, wrote out a glowing account of my failure. I spared no
detail of my degradation, even to taking fruit from the hotel table to
my room.
Then I began to fabricate. I told how I had overcome all these
handicaps and had made a success of myself. I lied. I said that I was
now drawing down $200,000 a year, but that I had never forgotten my
old friends. It was a good yarn, but it took me a long while to make
it up. And when, at last, it was ready, I sent it to the _American
Magazine_.
This is it!
How Insane Are You?
Following is a test used in all State Hospitals to determine the
fitness of the inmates for occasional shore leave. Try it on yourself
and see where you get off.