their dainty rose-tipped fingers, they packed the lus-
cious by-products of cattle-killing into tins--tins which
shone as only the pen of the "commercial artist" can
make tins shine.

"There's your story!" he exclaimed. "The poetic
side of packing! Don't write about the slaughter-
houses. Dwell on daintiness--pretty girls in white
caps--everything shining and clean! Don't you see
that's the way to make your story original?"

Of course I saw it at once. Original? Why,
original is no name for it! I could never have con-
ceived such originality! It isn't in me! I should no
more have thought of writing only of pretty girls and
pretty cans, after witnessing those bloody scenes, than
of describing the battle at Liège in terms of polish used
on soldiers' buttons.

But original as the idea is, you perceive I have not
used it. I could not bear to. He thought of it first.
It belonged to him. If I used it, the originality would
not be mine, but his. So I have deliberately written
the story in my own hackneyed way.

-172-