It must make a fellow feel that he amounted to something.
"Gene, you remember that story I read to you one night--that yarn about the fellow that lived alone in the hills, and how the wolves used to come and sit on the ridge and howl o' nights--you know, the one you said was 'out uh sight'?
They took it, all right, and--here, what do you think of that ?" He tossed the letter over to Gene, who caught it just as it was about to be swept into the flame with the draught in Thurston, in the days which he spent one of the half-dozen Lazy Eight line-camps with Gene, down by the river, had been writing of the West--writing in fear and trembling, for now he knew how great was his subject and his ignorance of it.

In the long evenings, while the fire crackled and the flames played a game they had invented, a game where they tried which could leap highest up the great chimney; while the north wind whoo-ooed around the eaves and fine, frozen snow meal swished against the one little window; while shivering, drifting range cattle tramped restlessly through the sparse willow-growth seeking comfort where was naught but cold and snow and bitter, driving wind; while the gray wolves hunted in packs and had not long to wait for their supper, Thurston had written better than he knew.

He had sent the cold of the blizzards and the howl of the wolves; he had sent bits of the wind-swept plains back to New York in long, white envelopes.

And the editors were beginning to watch for his white envelopes and to seize them eagerly when they came, greedy for what was within.

Not every day can they look upon a few typewritten pages and see the range-land spread, now frowning, now smiling, before them.
"Gee! they say here they want a lot the same brand, and at any old price yuh might name.