For Peggy had reasoned, not unjustly, that if Skim Clark could make a fortune as an author he, Marshall McMahon McNutt, had a show to corral a few dollars in literature himself.

After lying awake half the night thinking it over, he arose this morning with the firm intention of competing with Skim for the village laurels.

He well knew he could not write a shuddery detective story, such as Skim had outlined, but that early poem of his, which the boy had seemed to regard so disdainfully, was considered by Peggy a rather clever production.

He repeated it over and over to himself, dwelling joyously on its perfect rhyme, until he was convinced it was a good poem and that Skim had enviously slandered it.

So he wrote it out in big letters on a sheet of foolscap and determined to offer it to "them newspaper gals." "I got a pome, Miss Patsy," he said, with unusual diffidence, for he was by no means sure the "gals" would not agree with Skim's criticism.
"What! Another contributor ?" she exclaimed playfully.