evening all the wagons which delivered papers for the "Journal" were out with huge signs over them: "Upton Sinclair will write, etc., etc." Then next day came my friend William Dinwiddie, representing the "Evening World." Would I write a series of articles for the "Evening World"? Certainly I would, I said, and signed a contract for a number of articles at five cents a word; so all the wagons of the "World" appeared with the announcement that I would tell in the "World" what I knew about conditions in the packing-houses of New York. And the editorial writers of the "Evening World," who had hitherto ignored my existence, now suddenly discovered that I was a great man. They put my picture at the top of their editorial page, celebrating me in this fashion:
A BOOK THAT MADE HISTORY
Not since Byron awoke one morning to find himself famous has there been such an example of world-wide celebrity won in a day by a book as has come to Upton Sinclair.
Yesterday unknown, the author of "The Jungle" is to-day a familiar name on two continents. Paris, London and Berlin know him only less well than New York and Boston. They know about him even in far-off Australia.
Forthwith came the man from the "Journal," all but tearing
his hair with excitement. What unspeakable treachery
was this I had committed? Was it true that I had promised
to write for the "World," as well as for the "Journal"? I
answered that it was, of course. "But," said this man, "you
gave me an exclusive contract." "I gave you nothing of the
sort," I said, and pulled out the contract to prove it. "But,"
said he, "you promised me personally that it would be an
exclusive contract." "I promised you nothing of the sort,"
I said. "I never thought of such a thing." But he argued and
insisted—I must have known, my common-sense must have
told me that my stories for them were of no value, if at the
same time I was writing for their deadly rival. I was rather
shocked at that statement. Were they entirely interested in
a "scoop," and not at all in the working girls of New York?
"To hell with the working girls of New York!" said the
Hearst reporter; whereat, of course, I was still more shocked.
For three days this man from the "Journal" and other men from the "Journal" kept bombarding and besieging me; and I, poor devil, suffered agonies of embarrassment and distress, being sensitive, and not able to realize that this was an
