Winner Stories

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finished and Erica stole noiselessly into the next room to put it
up.
To her surprise she found that Tom had not gone to bed. He was
still toiling away at his desk with a towel round his head; she
could almost have smiled at the ludicrous mixture of grief and
sleepiness on his face, had not her own heart been so loaded with
care and sadness. The post brought in what Tom described as
bushels of letters every day, and he was working away at them now
with sleepy heroism.
How tired you look, said Erica. See! I have brought in this
for the 'Idol.'
You've been writing it now! That is good of you. I was afraid we
should have to make up with some wretched padding of Blank's.
He took the sheets from her and began to read. Laughter is often
only one remove from grief, and Tom, though he was sadhearted
enough, could not keep his countenance through Erica's article.
First his shoulders began to shake, then he burst into such a
paroxysm of noiseless laughter that Erica, fearing that he could
not restrain himself, and would be heard in the sickroom, pulled
the towel from his forehead over his mouth; then, conquered herself
by the absurdity of his appearance, she was obliged to bury her own
face in her hands, laughing more and more whenever the
incongruousness of the laughter occurred to her. When they had
exhausted themselves the profound depression which had been the
real cause of the violent reaction returned with double force. Tom
sighed heavily and finished reading the article with the gravest of
faces. He was astonished that Erica could have written at such a
time an article positively scintillating with mirth.
How did you manage anything so witty tonight of all nights? he
asked.
Don't you remember Hans Andersen's clown Punchinello, said Erica.
He never laughed and joked so gayly as the night when his love
died and his own heart was broken.
There was a look in her eyes which made Tom reply, quickly: Don't
write any more just now; the professor has promised us something
for next week. Don't write any more till till the chieftain is
well.
After that she wished him good night rather hastily, crept upstairs
to her attic, and threw herself down on her bed. Why had he spoken
of the future? Why had his voice hesitated? No, she would not
think, she would not.
So the article appeared in that week's IdolBreaker, and thousands
and thousands of people laughed over it. It even excited
displeased comment from the other side, and in many ways did a
great deal of what in Guilford Terrace was considered good work.
For Erica herself, it was long before she had time to give it

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