"It would take his mind off.
He's had a lot of trouble."
The man scowled in his sleep and clenched his hand, so that the
bread crumbled in it.
"And so I won the prize," he muttered, "just as I told her I would.
Did I have any pull? Was there any favoritism? No--you know it as
well as I do--it was good work won that prize!"
"Was it a bridge prize?" Caroline inquired maturely. The woman
stared.
"A bridge prize?" she repeated vaguely. "Why, no, I guess not. It
was for writing a story for one of those magazines. He won a
thousand dollars."
The man opened his eyes suddenly.
"And if you don't believe it," he said, still in that strange
sing-song voice, "just read that letter."
He pulled a worn, creased sheet from an inner pocket and thrust it
at Caroline.
"It's typewritten," he added, "it's easy enough to see if I'm lying.
Just read it out."
Caroline glanced at the engraved letter-heading and began to read in
her careful, childish voice:
MY DEAR MR. WILLISTON:
_It is with great pleasure that I have to announce the fact that
your story, "The Renewal," has been selected by the judges as
most worthy of the thousand-dollar prize offered by us._
The woman snatched the paper from her hand.
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