There was about a month of it. And then Pettit came to me bearing an invisible mitten, with the forti- tude of a dish-rag. He talked of the grave and South America and prussic acid; and I lost an after- noon getting him straight. I took him out and saw that large and curative doses of whiskey were ad- ministered to him. I warned you this was a true story -- 'ware your white ribbons if only follow this tale. For two weeks I fed him whiskey and Omar, and read to him regularly every evening the column in the evening paper that reveals the secrets of fe- male beauty. I recommend the treatment.
After Pettit was cured be wrote more stories. He recovered his old-time facility and did work just short of good enough. Then the curtain rose on the third act.
A little, dark-eyed, silent girl from New Hamp- shire, who was studying applied design, fell deeply in love with him. She was the intense sort, but ex- ternally glace, such as New England sometimes fools us with. Pettit liked her mildly, and took her about a good deal. She worshipped him, and now and then ignored him.
There came a climax when she tried to jump out of a window, and he had to save her by some perfunc- tary, unmeant wooing. Even I was shaken by the depths of the absorbing affection she showed. Home, friends, traditions, creeds went up like thistle-down in the scale against her love. It was really discom- posing.
One night again Pettit sauntered in, yawning. As he had told me before, he said he felt that he could do a great story, and as before I hunted him to his room and saw him open his inkstand. At one o'clock the sheets of paper slid under my door.
I read that story, and I jumped up, late as it was, with a whoop of joy. Old Pettit had done it. Just as though it lay there, red and bleeding, a woman's heart was written into the lines. You couldn't see the joining, but art, exquisite art, and pulsing na- ture had been combined into a love story that took you by the throat like the quinsy. I broke into Pettit's room and beat him on the back and called him name -- names high up in the galaxy of the im- mortals that we admired. And Pettit yawned and begged to be allowed to sleep.
On the morrow, I dragged him to an editor. The great man read, and, rising, gave Pettit his hand.
That was a decoration, a wreath of bay, and a guar- antee of rent.
And then old Pettit smiled slowly. I call him Gen- tleman Pettit now to myself. It's a miserable name to give a man, but it sounds better than it looks in print.
"I see," said old Pettit, as he took up his story and began tearing it into small strips. "I see the game now. You can't write with ink, and you can't write with your own heart's blood, but you can write with the heart's blood of some one else. You have to be a cad before you can be an artist. Well, I am for old Alabam and the Major's store. Have you got a light, Old Hoss?"
I went with Pettit to the depot and died hard.
"Shakespeare's sonnets?" I blurted, making a last stand. "How about him?"
"A cad," said Pettit. "They give it to you, and you sell it -- love, you know. I'd rather sell ploughs for father."
"But," I protested, " you are reversing the de- cision of the world's greatest -- "
"Good-by, Old Hoss," said Pettit.
"Critics," I continued. " But -- say -- if the Major can use a fairly good salesman and book- keeper down there in the store, let me know, will you?"