"Never mind the big, long letters.
Throw them under the table.

Read me the small letters." "No can," was the answer.

"Teresa, she go to school, she can." So Teresa Silva, aged nine, opened his letters and read them to him.

He listened absently to a long dun from the type-writer people, his mind busy with ways and means of finding a job.

Suddenly he was shocked back to himself.
"'We offer you forty dollars for all serial rights in your story,'" Teresa slowly spelled out, "'provided you allow us to make the alterations suggested.'" "What magazine is that ?" Martin shouted.