THE SEVENTY-SIXTH PAGE

My couple of city capers were the work of a childish amateur; further instruction was necessary if I were to accomplish my modest goals.

I was probably entering the last sector of my self-education, following prairie learning, the schooling of the big city, and the higher tutelage of continued reading.

All my reading had been for pleasure. My search for the reading enjoyment of the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew was coming to an end. Reading must now instruct as never before.

Mysteries were to tell me of useful tortures and murders. Adventure tales could show me the broader view of action. Science fiction could aid me in more systematic aspects of my inquiry. The frustrations which drove romances would surely come in useful if at some point I had to deal with the human heart. Westerns, alone, seemed useless as a subject for instruction. I had always thought Cops and Robbers was more fun than the old American game of Cowboys and Indians, anyway.

I tried to read one book daily in each category. This played hell with my freelance work which was needed to finance my forthcoming campaign. Also, I needed to keep up the contact with my publisher for entry into the building where my works of vengeance must be played out. Manuscript reading was essential, too.