And the high and lofty, heaven-inspired Transcontinental paid five dollars for five thousand words! The great writer had recently died in a foreign land--in dire poverty, Martin remembered, which was not to be wondered at, considering the magnificent pay authors receive.
Well, he had taken the bait, the newspaper lies about writers and their pay, and he had wasted two years over it.

But he would disgorge the bait now.

Not another line would he ever write.

He would do what Ruth wanted him to do, what everybody wanted him to do--get a job.

The thought of going to work reminded him of Joe--Joe, tramping through the land of nothing-to-do.