Blix allowed him to think so.
But "A Victory Over Death," as the story was finally called, was a
success. Condy was too much of a born story-teller not to know
when he had done something distinctly good. When the story came
back from the typewriter's, with the additional strength that
print lends to fiction, and he had read it over, he could not
repress a sense of jubilation. The story rang true.
"Bully, bully!" he muttered between his teeth as he finished the
last paragraph. "It's a corker! If it's rejected everywhere, it's
an out-of-sight yarn just the same."
And there Condy's enthusiasm in the matter began to dwindle. The
fine fire which had sustained him during the story s composition
had died out. He was satisfied with his work. He had written a
good story, and that was the end of it. No doubt he would send it
East--to the Centennial Company--to-morrow or the day after--some
time that week. To mail the manuscript meant quite half an hour's
effort. He would have to buy stamps for return postage; a letter
would have to be written, a large envelope procured, the accurate
address ascertained. For the moment his supplement work demanded
his attention. He put off sending the story from day to day. His
interest in it had abated. And for that matter he soon discovered
he had other things to think of.
It had been easy to promise Blix that he would no longer gamble at
his club with the other men of his acquaintance; but it was "death
and the devil," as he told himself, to abide by that promise.
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