Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, 1895-10-23
A CLEAR CASE.

4dAh al III ufA uO10 6OOd aPpOAAe-
ment on the staff Of The Daily Argus,
and always had more literary work on
hand than he knew how to get through.
He might therefore be considered "ris-
ing" man. He had written little book
Of essays, and the critics had told him
that he had style, which is perhaps the
highest praise that critics deal in nova
days. On the other hand, his one volume
novel had been pronounced crude, NOR
bid and mbitious, and had gone in
to three editions, whence it may easily
be seen that he was on the road to q
popular success. He had begun to know
this, chiefly by the kind Of circulars
that now reached him in halfpenny
wrappers. They used always to be ad-
vertisements of patent fuel, new stoves,
or outfitters' warehouses. They now
proved to contain notices of press cutting
firms and booksellers catalogues-a sig
nifcant change sis this famei" he
once asked himself when he was request
ed to send his photograph and sketch
Of his early life to an American news
paper. On second thoughts he concluded
that, although it could not be called
fame, it might mean success, and he
went on his way rejoicing.
But even a moderate success like his
has its drawbacks, as he discovered to
his cost.
Like most journalists he was not q
very early riser, and it was with feel
ing of distinct irritation that he heard
one morning while he was still in his
bath the announcement of visitor.
Coming" he roared through the
door to the adjacent sitting room, and
proceeded to dress himself in leisurely
manner, wondering meanwhile whether
this early caller were a printers devil
or dun.
He looked personable young fellow
as he came out of his room, of middle
height, muscular, brisk, erect, with a
keen hawks eye, dark hair that curled
wherever it was long enough to get a
chance, quick, bright manner, and a
smile that was very attractive. His air
Of health, strength and joyousness made
him Q curious contrast to the stranger
whom he found in his sitting room, o
man who might be any age between 80
and 90, sallow, worn, indescribably
fatigued looking, with long. fair mus
tache, downtrodden look and decidedly
shabby clothes Of somewhat foreign cut.
He made profound bow when Van-
brugh entered and stood clasping his
picturesque felt hat to his side in an at
titude of humble expectancy, while his
host, glancing at him carelessly, asked
him to be seated, and himself took his
usual place near his desk.
"I am ashamed to intrude upon you"
said the man, speaking in low, fluent
voice not unpleasant to the ear, "but
the fact is that Messrs. Mailing rec
commended me to call upon you"-
"Eh?" said Vanbrugh. He suddenly
remembered an account that he had
lately seen in the papers Of q man who
visited authors with false testimonials
and messages from publishers, and he
wondered If this were the man. Ger
tainly Messrs. Mailing 6 Son were his
publishers. "Have you letter from
Mr.. Mailing to me?" he asked rather
sharply.
The stranger lifted his hand deprecat-
ingly. "Not from MI. Mailing" he
said in gentle voice, "but I have q
letter to show you. Mr.. Mailing said
that ought to show it to you. He was
very kind, but of course he could not
find me work to do 1t is work that
am in search of, sir, and unless find it
dare not think Of what will happen to
my wife and children"
He paused and put one long, lean
hand over his eyes, as though to keep
out the picture.
"What sort of work do you want?"
said vanbrugh, fidgeting with his pa
pers.
Copying, typewriting, shorthand
from dictation. Anything to keep the
wolf from the door. My poor little girls
sir, on Christmas day I had nothing
to give them but bread and cheese-I
could not bear to see them crying, and I
locked myself in my room away from
them. But why should 1 tell you such
pitiful details? Read this letter and you
will see that it is no fault Of my own
+ His voice choked a little, and he held
pnt the letter with shaking hand.
Frank looked at him doubtfully. Either
he was a splendid actor, or his emotion
Was sincere. Vanbrugh had learned by
bitter experience to be suspicious Of
strangers, but he was inclined to believe
in this man s veracity.
The paper in his hand bore an en-
graved crest, an address with which he
was well acquainted. He turned to the
last page to see the signature-it was
one which he knew we'll, and the letter,
addressed to Mailing, the publisher,
gave a glowing account Of the bearers
abilities and past achievements.
"Your name, then," said Vanbrugh,
keeping his eye on the letter, "is Charles
Himmonds?''
"Yes-yes-at your service, II there
Il ANYTHING ] can possibly do Tor IqHk I