Ernest Coppie, an author, was trying to grind out something that could be sold for enough coin to buy himself a good square meal. He dashed off some sentimental guff called, "When Willie Came to Say Good-Night," and it was punk. He threw it in the wastebasket but when his friend came in he discovered it and set out to sell it. He finally found a magazine editor who gave him a check for $500, and it was like picking money off a bush. The author, who was an old bachelor and a kid hater, was tickled to death to get the dough, but when letters came in congratulating him on his excellent poem and sympathizing with him, he was bored to death.