And when I later saw his dark green stripes turning pastel and knew that anemia was imminent, and started to lay him down for a earned rest, he would stiffen himself as if to say, 'Oh, come, come! I'm good for half a page yet!'"

"It sounds as though he was a willing worker, but I still can't see why his malfunction makes our marriage impossible."

"I haven't gotten to his career as a novelist yet. There lies the heart of the tragedy."

"Please proceed to the heart of the tragedy."

* * * * *

"It all began when I found him arched up one morning, writing by himself--with difficulty, it is true. His first message to the world was, '_I hold that the supine viewpoint is seldom downward!_'"

"I don't see how he could stand up on end to write for very long, even with such a magnificent philosophy to bolster him."

"What a terrible pun," Jean groaned. "He couldn't stand up very long at first. But I saw he had talent. I gladly learned the skill of holding him upright in a relaxed manner so that he could express himself on paper. In no time at all, he had written what was to be his first, sensational, best-selling shocker, _Naked Bellies in the Grass_."

"That does sound sensational."

"Not for snakes. He neglected to mention his characters were snakes. _I Fang You Very Much_ followed swiftly afterward and was just as successful. Mothers were amused with its lispy title and got it for the children."

"Sounds like a story with some meat in it."

"Yes! Something you can get your teeth into. However, his next offering, _A Snake Pit Full of Love_, was by far the topper. It was banned in Boston."

"You haven't mentioned anything tragic so far," she observed. "In fact, you have made a pot of money."

"Right. After my snake had filed his income tax returns, we still had enough money to purchase this house and to support us for a couple of years. The only trouble is, his royalties have stopped coming in and that money is all used up. I still haven't been able to sell any of my landscape paintings. So we haven't any income, and that's why you and I can't marry for a long time yet--if ever!"

Her exquisite brows wrinkled with concentration. "I don't understand. Has Droozle written himself out?"

"Far from it," answered Jean, seating himself and parking Droozle on his knee. "He's writing more than ever."

"The quality is gone, then?"

Jean shook his head. "No, he's writing superlatively."

"Then what _is_ the problem?" she asked, now thoroughly mystified.

"He's writing classics!" burst out Jean in baffled irritation. "He won't write anything else! Easily seeing the approaching catastrophe, I wrote long persuading essays to him. It was pathetically useless. Proudly he continued to write his _Rise and Fall of the Western Plainsman_ in a lucid, passionate prose which would evoke an imperishable picture--but in three thousand pages."

"I think classics are _nice_," protested Judy, "and one of these days I'm going to read another one."

Huskily Jean told her the worst.