"I use pad-paper when I have it." Several white sheets were laid in a
pile by themselves. "But most of the chapters are on wrapping-paper.
Mrs. Beckwith gives me all of hers, and so does Mrs. Rheinhimer when
her children don't chew it up before she can save it. That's chapter
fourteen. I don't like it much, it's so squshy, but I wrote it that
way because I read in a newspaper once that slops sold better than
anything else, and I'm writing this to sell, if I can."

"Have you named it?" Van Landing's voice was as serious as
Carmencita's. "I've been told that a good title is a great help to a
book. I hope yours will bring you a good deal of money, but--"

"So do I." Carmencita's hands came together fervently. "I'm bound to
make some money, and this is the only way I can think of until I'm
fourteen and can go to work. I'm just thirteen and two months, and I
can't go yet. The law won't let me. I used to think it took a lot of
sense to write a book, but the Damanarkist says it don't, and that
anybody who is fool enough to waste time could write the truck people
read nowadays. He don't read it, but I do, all I can get--I like it."

"I've never tried to write." Van Landing again glanced at the clock.
Noodles was staying an interminably long time. "Like you, I imagined
it took some measure of ability--"

"Oh, but it don't. I mean it doesn't take any to write things like
that." Carmencita's finger pointed to several backless magazines and a
couple of paper-bound books on the table behind her. "I read once that
people like to read things that make them laugh and cry and--and
forget about the rent money, and tell all about love-dovies and
villains and beautiful maidens, and my book's got some of all those