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thing that was so badly written that I couldn't endure it.

Well, that had been the first. But I had written others. The other books I've written had all been technical--technical businesses about fires in mercantile estaolishments and other experimental things--they were more monographs than they were books.

I said to Mr. Bye, “No, I don't want to do it.” I didn't want to do it, I didn't believe in writing books about ones friends. I hated biography, and this wouldn't be biography, and I wasn't willing to work hand at it--“Oh, no, I wouldn't.”

“Well, you think about it. You think about it.”

“Well,” I said, “I can't afford to, in the first place. I can't afford to take the time.”

“If you'll agree to do it, I can get you a publisher and he'll make you an advance so that you can afford to do it. I know that.” I didn't know about this business of advances. “You can afford to do it.”

“Well, I can't do it,” I remember saying over and over again.

I the meantime, I had made an agreement sometime in June to write a series of articles for the labor Press--what's it called?--for two years. It was distributed through the labor Press of the country. It wasn't distributed by the Anti-Discrimination Committee of Brith, but