I hid the letter under the paper lining in my dresser drawer. One evening father called me. He was in the living-room with my letter in his hand. White-faced, he lashed out at me, "Who is Fred?"

I wouldn't tell.

For a long time he raged at me. I was a filthy degenerate, not fit to associate with decent people. It was God's mercy that my mother hadn't lived to see this day. I could leave this house the first thing in the morning. I was no son of his, and he never wanted to see my face again.

I was frightened and shaken. I had no plans, no idea of how I was to live. I had wanted my freedom, but not like this.

Instinctively I headed for the nearest city. I worked in a restaurant, a hotel,

a furniture store.

Fred became only a vague memory, as other men drifted in and out of my life. Faceless men, mostly. Some of them kind, but men who didn't matter. In my spare hours I wrote. One of my stories grew into a novel. I sent it to a literary agent whose name I found in a library. Larry Framingham was his name. Why did I choose him from the list? Was it the merest accident, or was fate bending over my shoulder?

Larry Framingham found a publisher for my book. I hoped my father and the rest of Hintonville would see it and perhaps recognize themselves. The book was not a success. Neither was my second.

My agent wrote to ask how my next book was progressing. Depressed and discouraged, I answered that there would never be another book.

A letter came from him. "Why don't you come to New York? I'm almost sure I can find something for you to do here—something that will be a cushion until you can finish your next book.”

I went to New York. I met Larry Framingham. He was older than I. His hair was gray at the temples. He had the kindest face I had ever seen.

He found me a room overlooking Washington Square. Every evening for a week he dropped by. Then he told me, "It's time you settled down to work. You won't be seeing me for a while."

The next evening stretched interminably ahead. Try as I would, I couldn't write. I gazed out across the Square. I paced the floor. At last I called Larry. "Something's the matter," I said. "I got so used to you last week, I can't seem to do anything without you."

"A funny thing," he said. "I was just feeling the same way.”

Larry found a larger apartment, and we moved in together. My next book was a success, and my first play ran six months on Broadway.

For all we meant to each other, Larry was my severest critic.

"You're bitter, and it creeps into your work," he told me. "All the time you're fighting back at life."

"I'm not fighting now," I protested. "I'm perfectly happy as long as I'm with you."

He shook his head. "Sometimes you're miles away from me, Jim. You're still trying to get even with Hintonville."

Forget the past and let it go. That was Larry's creed.

I tried to forget. Most of the time I succeeded, but sometimes I was back in Hintonville, hating it, hating my father.

One day a telegram came to me, in care of my publishers. It was from someone in the Hintonville Bank. My father had died suddenly of a heart attack.