He had been back in the world of the play he was slowly creating；
roughing out whatever scene he would be working on that evening in his head。 The
play was going very well； and although Wendy had said little； he knew she was
pleased。 He had been roadblocked on the crucial scene between Denker； the
sadistic headmaster； and Gary Benson； his young hero； during the last unhappy
six months at Stovington； months when the craving for a drink had been so bad
that he could barely concentrate on his in…class lectures； let alone his
extracurricular literary ambitions。
But in the last twelve evenings； as he actually sat down in front of the
office…model Underwood he had borrowed from the main office downstairs； the
roadblock had disappeared under his fingers as magically as cotton candy
dissolves on the lips。 He had e up almost effortlessly with the insights into
Denker's character that had always been lacking； and he had rewritten most of
the second act accordingly； making it revolve around the new scene。 And the
progress of the third act； which he had been turning over in his mind when the
wasp put an end to cogitation； was ing clearer all the time。 He thought he
could rough it out in two weeks； and have a clean copy of the whole damned play
by New Year's。
He had an agent in New York； a tough red…headed woman named Phyllis Sandler
who smoked Herbert Tareytons； drank Jim Beam from a paper cup； and thought the
literary sun rose and set on Sean O'Casey。 She had marketed three of Jack's
short stories； including the Esquire piece。 He had written her about the play；
which was called The Little School； describing the basic conflict be