When I went in next morning I found him
writing away at his novel just as usual, but when I looked at him it
seemed to me that the night had aged him fearfully. As a rule, he
took interruptions as a matter of course, and with perfect sweetness
of temper; but to-day he seemed unable to drag himself back to the
outer world. He was writing at a desperate pace too, and frowned
when I spoke to him. I took up the sheet of foolscap which he had
just finished and glanced at the number of the page--evidently he
had written an immense quantity since the previous day.
"You will knock yourself up if you go on at this rate!" I exclaimed.
"Nonsense!" he said sharply. "You know it never tires me."
Yet, all the same, he passed his hand very wearily over his
forehead, and stretched himself with the air of one who had been in
a cramping position for many hours.
"You have broken your vow!" I cried. "You have been writing at
night."
"No," he said; "it was morning when I began--three o'clock. And it
pays better to get up and write than to lie awake thinking."
Judging by the speed with which the novel grew in the next few
weeks, I could tell that Derrick's nights were of the worst.
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