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write. She was more composed in manner than Gregory had been, but she was concentrating intensely on the metallic squawkings at her ear. Gregory was leaning against the wall now, stricken still, but with his color returning.
    At the Martin Heights end of the conversation, Jake Zatke, who taught Science at Jamaica High and could never slur over preliminary data, was going through all the introductory steps once more: how he and Mary had heard the repeated ringing of the Johns’ bell, how they had finally opened their door to see a Western Union messenger preparing to hang a notification card on the Johns’ doorknob, how they had offered to sign for the message, assuring personal delivery no matter how late the return of their friends and neighbors, how the messenger had at last agreed, though being new at his job and uncertain of protocol, he had resisted for a long time, how more than two hours of staring at the unblinking yellow envelope had made Mary so apprehensive that she had finally insisted on looking up Thornton’s number in the directory, and transferring all jurisdiction and responsibility.
    Abby said; “Would you read it now, Jake?”
    As she listened, her whole manner changed. Her lips parted over a gleeful gasp, a squeal of joy sounded in her throat and she sent her husband a glance of such melting adoration that he straightened immediately and overcame his need for a wall against which to lean.
    “Read it again slowly, will you, Jake? I’m going to write it down this time. It’s just too wonderful to believe.”
    Around her; grimness fled from faces, fear from eyes, tension from muscles. Thorn Junior said, “They’ve guessed the Mystery Tune or something,” and went back to reassure those beyond the listening area. Everybody followed him except Gregory and Hat, who watched Abby begin to write.
    It was a long telegram; she used a second page and part of a third. At last Abby said, “Oh, Jake, thanks. Slide it under our door, would you, so we can see it with our own eyes when we get there?”
    She hung up, gathered up her scribbled pages, rushed to Gregory and Hat and hugged them both at one time.
    “Mom, what? ” Hat cried.
    “Best Selling Books took Dad’s novel!”
    She propelled Gregory back into the living room. “Read it aloud, Gregory. It’s your news.” By now thirty-four eyes were on Gregory as he cleared his throat, consulted the sheets in his hand, and adjusted the fit of his glasses.
    “It’s a telegram,” he said. “About my book.”
    “What about your book?” This was Thornton and if a faint disappointment, as of decreasing interest, tinged his tone, no one noticed it. “Which book?”
    “My new one, that is, the new one before this new one I’m starting now.”
    “The one about the world?” his mother asked, her eyes glowing.
    “Yes, that one,” Gregory answered. “The one that’s coming out in the spring. It seems—” He tugged his tie. “Well, you see, this telegram is from my publisher. He—” Again he stopped. He looked at Abby, and in a voice that was suddenly beseeching, said, “You read it.”
    Abby laughed and took the pages back. “B.S.B.—that stands for Best Selling Books, and it’s the biggest and most famous of all the big famous book clubs, with nearly a million members—B.S.B. has just chosen Gregory’s new novel.”
    “My God,” said Thorn.
    “I don’t believe it,” said Cindy.
    “What?” said everybody else together.
    “Here, I’ll read Mr. Digby’s wire,” Abby said, “word for word, ‘ UPON MY INSISTENCE THE GOOD WORLD WAS OUR SOLE ENTRY AT B.S.B. THIS MONTH AND NOW ALL CONGRATULATIONS STOP IT IS APRIL SELECTION WITH JUDGES UNANIMOUSLY IGNORING ALL OTHER CONTENDERS STOP INITIAL PAYMENT WHICH WE SHARE EQUALLY IS ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR THOUSAND DOLLARS STOP PLEASE TELEPHONE IMMED —’ ”
    The rest of the telegram was lost in the uproar.

CHAPTER THREE
    O UT IN C HICAGO, M R. Digby was very drunk. Five hours had elapsed since