M., turns off the gas, and creeps into
bed, his stomach all upset from smoking so much without eating
anything, his eyes feeling like two burnt holes in a blanket, and
wishing that he had the sense he was born with. He'll have to be up
at 6:05, and he knows how he will feel. He also knows how he will
feel along about three o'clock in the afternoon. Smithers is coming
then to close up that deal. Smithers is as sharp as tacks, as
slippery as an eel, and as crooked as a dog's hind leg. Always
looking for the best of it. You need all your wits when you deal
with Smithers. Why didn't he take Mrs. General Public's advice, and
get to bed instead of sitting up fuddling himself with that fool
love-story?
That's how a book should be to be a great popular success, and one
that all the typewriter girls will have on their desks. I am
guiltily conscious that "Back Home" is not up to standard either
in avoirdupois heft or the power to unfit a man for business.
Here's a book. Is it long? No. Is it exciting? No. Any lost
diamonds in it? Nup. Mysterious murders? No. Whopping big
fortune, now teetering this way, and now teetering that, tipping
over on the Hero at the last and smothering him in an avalanche of
fifty-dollar bills? No. Does She get Him? Isn't even that. No
"heart interest" at all.
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