The Million Dollar Mystery Part 59

Could an author have a better purpose than this? Could he serve men to better advantage than by lightening the burden they are destined to carry through life by allowing their minds to dwell in pleasant places and to rejoice with the people of a make-believe world?

"I usually begin a story as a dramatist begins a play--with the end,"

says MacGrath. "The characters work out the plot themselves; I have very little to do with it after they have started."

"The structure of a plot must naturally be foremost; for, after all is said and done, the story's the thing. I never outline a plot; I carry the main thread in my head until I am ready to put it on paper, and after it a.s.sumes body on paper, it has many devious twists and turns of which I have no prior idea."

"I write whenever I feel like it, for when I am in the mood I do better work. I never force myself to do so much work each day. There are days when it is impossible to write one hundred words; again, I have written as many as seven thousand words a day. Obstacles? There are altogether too many to demonstrate. A character that doesn't "balk"

never fails to be uninteresting. I have always tried to place human people in absurd or unique situations and to let them extricate themselves as you or I, if so placed.

"The anatomy of a motif for a story is a complex thing, but of a practical joke, 'The Man on the Box' was evolved. A young man disguised as a coachman drove his sister and her friend to a ball one night. This happened in my native town, Syracuse, and it amused me greatly when critics said that the exploit was highly improbable. Out of the Italian state and church marriage came the plot of 'The Lure of the Mask.' The most trivial thing sometimes will suggest a plot. I found the ten of hearts one night on the sidewalk. It became the motif of 'Hearts and Masks.' Once, in Indianapolis, I chanced to see an Italian selling plaster images. It gave me a starting point for 'A Splendid Hazard.' Walking down Broadway one day I stopped to look in a window where oriental rugs were being advertised. When I turned away the seed germ for my latest book, 'The Carpet from Bagdad,' was in my mind."

Mr. MacGrath is an enthusiastic fisherman. He goes to Cape Vincent, Lake Ontario, every summer, when he isn't ambling in China, or India, or Africa. He believes that the best ba.s.s grounds in the world are within a radius of twenty miles from Cape Vincent, which is really in the head of the St. Lawrence River. A friend undertook to convince him that there were other places, so MacGrath consented to accompany him to Canada. They arrived at sunset, and the host extemporized over the glories of the setting sun.

"Ever see anything to beat that, Mac?"

"Fine!"

On the following morning they went out for ba.s.s. At four o'clock in the afternoon they had caught exactly one.

The host again rhapsodized over the sunset.

The second day they caught no ba.s.s at all. On their way back to the hotel the host was silent. As they came up to the landing, MacGrath touched his host on the shoulder.

"There's your darned sunset, Jim!"