"The first battle, fought and finished," Martin said to the looking-glass ten days later.

"But there will be a second battle, and a third battle, and battles to the end of time, unless--" He had not finished the sentence, but looked about the mean little room and let his eyes dwell sadly upon a heap of returned manuscripts, still in their long envelopes, which lay in a corner on the floor.

He had no stamps with which to continue them on their travels, and for a week they had been piling up.

More of them would come in on the morrow, and on the next day, and the next, till they were all in.

And he would be unable to start them out again.