"
"Nonsense, Bunny! I thought they paid so well? Give them time,
and you'll get your check."
"Oh, no, I sha'n't," said I gloomily. "I've got to be content
with the honor of getting in; the editor wrote to say so, in so
many words," I added. But I gave the gentleman his distinguished
name.
"You don't mean to say you've written for payment already?"
No; it was the last thing I had intended to admit. But I had
done it. The murder was out; there was no sense in further
concealment. I had written for my money because I really needed
it; if he must know, I was cursedly hard up. Raffles nodded as
though he knew already. I warmed to my woes. It was no easy
matter to keep your end up as a raw freelance of letters; for my
part, I was afraid I wrote neither well enough nor ill enough for
success. I suffered from a persistent ineffectual feeling after
style. Verse I could manage; but it did not pay. To personal
paragraphs and the baser journalism I could not and I would not
stoop.
Raffles nodded again, this time with a smile that stayed in his
eyes as he leant back watching me. I knew that he was thinking of
other things I had stooped to, and I thought I knew what he was
going to say. He had said it before so often; he was sure to say
it again. I had my answer ready, but evidently he was tired of
asking the same question.
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