by H. B. Hickey
and recovered his balance, then went into his cubiclethrough the door. It was a windowless hole, lit by a single small bulb.Wilbur worked at an old table which was neatly stacked with sheets ofblank paper. He furnished his own pen.
There was a small window in Wilbur's door, but contrary to what avisitor might have expected, it had not been placed there for Wilbur'sconvenience. The window was the means by which Bellows could watch hispoet and be certain that he was working every minute of the time.
* * * * *
Today Wilbur found himself at a loss for rhymes. By mid-morning he hadcompleted only fifteen poems in praise of Mother. He still had somefifty to go. But instead of writing he too often caught himselflistening to what was going on in the outer office.
"Mr. Bellows--" the new girl started to say.
"Call me Pete," Wilbur heard Bellows tell her. "I'll call you Jean. Justone happy family, you know, you and I and Wilbur."
"Does Mr. Mook write all the poetry?" Miss Burnett wanted to know. Shesounded quite impressed and Wilbur glowed with a new found pride.
"Just a knack. Doesn't take any brains," Bellows deprecated. "Any foolcould do it."
I'd like to see you try, Wilbur thought. You're one fool who couldn't.He thought that was pretty good repartee, even if it was only mental.Wilbur wished he had the nerve to say the words to Bellows' face. But hedidn't.
His newspaper, still folded to the classified ads, reposed in Wilbur'swastebasket and his eyes chanced to fall upon it. Something stirred inWilbur. There had been one advertisement in particular. Just below therequest for a bodyguard. He wondered if he had read it right.
Keeping one eye on the window to make sure Bellows did not observe him,Wilbur retrieved his newspaper. Quickly his eye sped down the column.There it was:
Are you timid? Do you lack confidence? I can help you. A. J. Merlin, 136 W. Erie St.
Wilbur shook his head and dropped the newspaper into the wastebasket. Hewas rather inclined to think A. J. Merlin was overestimating his powers.Probably a fake, anyway. Most of those fellows were.
Looking out of his window, Wilbur saw Bellows patting Jean on theshoulder as he explained something to her. He was a fast worker, wasPete Bellows. By the time Wilbur got the next line of poetry writtenBellows was asking Jean if he could take her to lunch.
Before answering she turned her head toward Wilbur and he could see thatshe was none too happy about the offer. She seemed to be trying to thinkof a good reason for not accepting.
"Well?" Pete asked. Jean looked back at him.
"I--I guess so," Wilbur heard her say. Bellows patted her on theshoulder again.
I wonder, Wilbur thought, what she would say if I asked her sometime?That looked like a question which would never find an answer. It wouldtake more nerve than he had to ask. But the very thought of him invitinga girl like Jean to lunch sent a pleasant tingle down Wilbur's back. Heeven allowed himself to think that she might prefer a smoother type ofman than Pete Bellows. Smoother, Wilbur reminded himself miserably, notmushier.
Just before noon Pete Bellows came in to get the copy Wilbur had turnedout through the morning. At the sight of the tiny stack which hadaccumulated Bellows' mouth turned down.
"Loafing!" he accused. "Just because I've been too busy to keep my eyeson you!"
It occurred to Wilbur that the only thing he'd seen Pete do that morningwas pat Jean's shoulder, and that hardly seemed like hard work. But hedidn't say anything.
"Probably reading the paper while my back was turned," Pete went on. Hereached down and got the paper and put it in his pocket. "Now, listen tome, Mook. You'd better have some work done when Jean and I get back fromlunch!"
Wilbur nodded without looking up at him. He was always afraid to look atBellows when the burly man was angry. Pete could get a vicious glint inhis eye. After Pete had left the cubicle Wilbur sneaked a look afterhim. He saw that Jean had heard the whole thing. And at sight of thedistaste on her face he flushed.
Why couldn't he have told Pete off? Wilbur started to dream about whathe should have said. Then he stopped. It was all right to daydream butPete had sounded sore when he had said he wanted to see some work done.Wilbur put his head down and started writing.
Within the hour he had completed six odes to Mother. One of them, Wilburknew, he could sell to a magazine for twenty times what Bellows wouldpay. For a moment he was tempted, even going so far as to pick up thesheet of paper preparatory to putting it in his pocket. Then he thoughtof what Pete Bellows might do if he found out. Wilbur set the paper backon the pile.
He was just in time. There were footsteps out in the hall and then thedoor swung open. Bellows and Jean came in. The girl was laughing now,and as Pete helped her off with her coat he was practically breathingdown her neck. It looked as though he had made some progress.
"Is it all right if I go to lunch now?" Wilbur asked timidly. He had towait until Pete had checked over his work. Then he got permission to go.
* * * * *
Until he was outside Wilbur felt hungry. For an hour his stomach hadbeen reminding him that it was time to eat. But suddenly the pangs ofhunger were gone. The thought of food was even unpleasant.
Maybe a short walk would give him fresh appetite, Wilbur thought. Theday was pleasant and sunny. If he spent a half hour walking he wouldstill have twenty minutes in which to gulp a sandwich. Pete Bellows haddecreed that fifty minutes constituted a lunch hour for Wilbur.
It was with no conscious motive that Wilbur headed south. He foundhimself walking at a gait much faster than his usual one, but attributedthat to the fine weather which he assured himself was exhilarating.Before he realized how fast he was going he had covered a dozen blocks.
The neighborhood had changed. Behind him lay the business district withits skyscrapers. All about him were the sagging and unsightly houses ofa once fine residential neighborhood which had deteriorated into a slumarea. The only places which seemed at all cared for were the roominghouses.
A poem of protest rose in Wilbur's breast, and was stilled as he becameaware that he was on Erie street. The street had some meaning for himbut it took several minutes before he realized why. Then he gasped. Onlytwo doors from where he stood was 136 West Erie Street!
For a long time Wilbur stood looking at the house. It was an old redbrick structure three stories high. The upper two floors appeareduntenanted. If they were not, the occupants must have liked fresh airfor there were no windows.
Wilbur directed his attention to the first floor. The windows there weretoo dusty to see through, but at least there were windows. A fat greycat sunned itself on the window ledge and regarded Wilbur withunblinking eyes. He shuddered and had to summon all his courage to climbthe stairs and look at the card nailed to the front door. A. J. Merlin,the card said, in an unusual script that Wilbur had trouble deciphering.
He raised his hand to knock, then changed his mind. But as he wasturning away he heard the door open.
"Looking for me, bub?" a creaking voice said. Wilbur turned around.
He found himself face to face with an old gentleman wrapped in whatappeared to be a blue dressing gown with white stars all over it. Theold man had a wisp of a beard and white eyebrows that slanted way up atthe outside corners. He was wearing on his head a blue dunce cap whichalso had white stars on it.
"Are you-uh-Mr. A. J. Merlin?" Wilbur stammered. "I mean the Mr. Merlinwho gives people confidence?"
"I might be," the old man said cagily.
He stared down at Wilbur, and for the first time Wilbur noticed the oldman had eyes as black and mysterious as a pool on a dark night. Thoseeyes regarded Wilbur, noting his size, weight and general construction.
"Bah," the old man snorted. "You won't do. Not timid enough."
"Yes, sir," Wilbur chattered. He started backward down the stairs andalmost fell.
"Wait a minute," the creaky voice ordered.
Wilbur halted in mid-step. The black eyes regarded him.
A hand tipped bylong, curving fingernails stroked the wisp of a beard.
"On the other hand," the old man said, "you might be more timid than youlook. Come on in."
* * * * *
Wilbur trailed after him down a long dark hallway that was musty withage. At the end of the hall was an equally musty room, sparselyfurnished with sagging and broken odds and ends. It was not thefurniture which engaged Wilbur's attention, but the other features ofthe place.
On an ancient stand a sun-dial reposed, and next to it a large andmilk-white glass ball. Near the stand a tripod stood over a sheet ofmetal on which a small fire blazed, and from the tripod a kettle wassuspended. Something bubbled in the kettle, something that gave off astrange and noxious odor.
Around the room jugs were scattered, and as Wilbur caught sight of thelabels a chill ran
