Droozle | Page 2

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. "Writing classics consumes paper by the ton. And if you ever get your 750,000 word story finished, you must then start shrinking it back to an acceptable 75,000 words. This is a nearly hopeless task. Of course if you can get it back to 75,000 words the digest magazines will have no trouble shrinking it to 15,000 words or fifteen pictures, and you then get your fingers in the till." He paused and all hope fled from his face. "Droozle won't live nearly long enough to get all of that shrinking done. And in the meantime that scribbling snake is writing me out of house and home!"
"Are you going to let him get away with it?" the girl challenged.
* * * * *
"I don't know whether I am or not," replied the young artist, looking worried. "I thought I had the problem solved at first. He got so sassy when we were arguing about him writing classics that I had no hesitation about applying a pinch of glue to his glittering little extremity. That put him out of the writing business until he came to terms."
"Well, now. You were enterprising!" she approved.
"It didn't do any good though," Jean grumbled despondently, bowing his head.
"He wouldn't bargain?" she asked incredulously.
"He didn't have to. He knew right where the cheese grater was."
"Ooh!"
"My sentiments exactly. But I don't know what to do with him now."
"You're all out of ideas?"
"Oh we could sell this house and move down to skid row where the rents are cheap," he flung out airily, but quite plainly worried sick.
"I've got a much better idea than that," she said cheerily, getting a pad and pencil from her red handbag. "How about giving Droozle this ultimatum?" As she wrote, Jean read over her shoulder, "'Suggest you begin writing fiction pleasing both to you and your master, or we shall be forced to hand you over to the dog catcher!'"
Jean drew back amazed. "Why, we would do no such thing!"
"I know it, silly. I'm just negotiating."
"No," he grumped, ready to be angry with her. He got up and strode around the studio. "The dog catcher! We will not lie to that snake!"
Judy dropped the idea. "I've just now thought of another one. Here's an ultimatum we could give him and mean it, too. No more writing until we reach an agreement, or we will take away all his writing paper and reading matter for good!"
"I'd thought of doing that," Jean conceded. "But isn't that a monstrous way to treat a literary genius?"
"Not at all!" she protested. "By taking on a work that will require more time than his lifetime, he is defeating himself."
"There's that way of looking at it," agreed the artist. "All right, Droozle," he called. "You heard