He called on Mary that evening to tell her what he had done and for the first time in weeks they didn't quarrel.
I am so happy, dear, she said, and there were tears in her eyes.
Let me read it to you.
I'd love to have you.
After he had concluded the reading, she said, I am so proud of you, Byron. What are you going to do with it now?
He kissed her and explained, I'm going to take it to the Age office. I know a fellow over there who owns a machine he will let me use. After it's typed I'm going to send it to one of the big magazines.
I wish you all the luck in the world.
In a fever to get the manuscript off, he kissed her good-bye, and rushed away to the newspaper office. Later that night he mailed his typewritten story to a prominent magazine, enclosing, as he had been advised to do, a stamped and self-addressed envelope providing for its return in the unthinkable event of its refusal.
In two days it came back accompanied by a printed slip: Rejection of material does not imply lack of merit, etc. He carried this dejectedly to Mary, all his confidence gone.
Don't be discouraged, Byron dear, she urged him. Send it somewhere else. You may have to send it to a dozen magazines before it is accepted. See what the slip says. Doubtless the rejection is due
