I worked there about two months until the end of the summer. The wages were marginal, but I was used to that. The only real problem I had was getting used to waiting on fellow students —— and even some of my former pupils when I had taught undergraduate courses. Most of them were highly amused; I wasn't.

One night I was at the city library and I chanced to notice an adver- tisement in the classified section of the Saturday Review: “Established writer author needs male secretary-amanuensis. Possible permanent position. Send full details . . ." The address was a P.O. box in Washing- ton. Well, says I, Nothing ventured, nothing gained. So I prepared a complete set of "details"; the previous spring I had gone in hock for a number of professionally-done resumes, complete with a photograph of laughing boy, and I added several pages of general balderdash, in order to give a sample of my own writing and thinking ability. I mailed it, thinking that all I was out was 15c in postage and three sheets of bond paper and went on selling shoes.

Several weeks later, I arrived home to find a telegram awaiting me; it was signed by a "C. Scott" who apparently had placed the ad in SR. The idea was that he would be in the area soon and wanted a personal interview. He suggested a date, and I dashed off an acceptance at once. Another week went by. One evening, my landlady came up and told me there was a phone call earlier and gave me a number to call back.

I placed the call and got the first surprise. C. Scott was ensconced in a motel not far away — and C. Scott was unmistakably female. I hurried over there as requested.

I received a second surprise when the door opened to my knock. (Miss?) Scott stood there, looming in the doorway like a monolith. Instantly the unmistakeable parallel to Gertrude Stein struck me, but I gave no visible reaction I hope.

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She invited me in, offered a drink and we talked for an hour or so about generalities, books and current society. She was an animated and accomplished conversationalist, an attribute I have always admired. and especially so in a woman. I must say the atmosphere was very congenial, so much so that I nearly forgot my reason for being there. To be perfectly frank, the discovery that C. Scott was in fact a woman had dampened my enthusiasm somewhat. I didn't particularly want to become involved with the type of writer who spews forth the typical