He hated the thought of ceasing to live, even for so short a time, and his sole consolation was that the alarm clock was set five hours ahead.

He would lose only five hours anyway, and then the jangling bell would jerk him out of unconsciousness and he would have before him another glorious day of nineteen hours.
In the meantime the weeks were passing, his money was ebbing low, and there was no money coming in.

A month after he had mailed it, the adventure serial for boys was returned to him by The Youth's Companion.
The rejection slip was so tactfully worded that he felt kindly toward the editor.

But he did not feel so kindly toward the editor of the San Francisco Examiner.

After waiting two whole weeks, Martin had written to him.