The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1909-07-07

I for a possible jest in his friends pug zling dictum. Somebody must write 'em-''
 "On the contrary" denied Caine Melodies write them. For instance there is a man who was born in South Brooklyn or somewhere; and spent . year or two in Europe. So much for his environment. He used to write charming stories. They were fairly vibrant with satire, humor, color and a ceaseless rush of action. His nature descriptions were revelations in word painting. I always read every line he wrote. So did some other people. But only some Then he moved to a little village. away from the centre of things and forthwith began to write novels of New York Society.
 ''It was very easy. The Sunday pa pers cost him no more than they cost anyone else. He fell to describing the innermost life of New York's inner most smart set. He scorned to depict single character that wasn't worth at least million. Silver, cut glass and diamonds strewed his pages; till one longed for brown bread and pie He flashed the fierce white light of unbiased ignorance into the darkest corners of a society that never was by sea or land. And what was the re- suit? In a day he leaped to immor- tality. The shop-girl read him so eag- erly that she rode past her station The youth behind the counter learned to rattle off the list of his books as easily as the percentages of the base ball-clubs. In the walks of life that he so vivid1y portrayed, such people as read at all made amused comments that could never by any possibility reach his ears. We others who had reveled in his earlier books felt as we might if an adored brother has left the diplomatic service to become a bartender. But we were in the minor ity. So we re-read Browning's Lost Leader dropped the subject and sought in vain for new idol.''
 'I s'pose so," agreed Caleb, hazi1y. recalling his wandered attention as Caine paused. q wish I hadn't got that tel'gram.'
 It was after midnight when Caleb Conover returned to his room. Three more telegrams awaited him. as wei as a penciled request that he call up Magdeburg Hotel on the long-distance, telephone. While he was profanely waiting for the operator to establish the connection, Caleb rippled open the telegrams one after the other Az were from Jack Each bore the same burden as the message that had come early in the evening. The last of the trio added:
 Long distance phone wires here temporarily out of order. Will call you as soon as they are repaired: on chance your train may not yet have gone.''
 Here's your party, sir," reported the operator.
 Curiously sick and dazed, even while his colder reason assured him the whole affair was probably a fraud, Conover caught up the receiver.
 That Magdeburg?" he shouted, 'Magdeburg Hotel? This is Conover. Caleb ConoHer. Lady named Shevlin there? Is she hurt?''
 "Yes," came the answer, droned with indistinctness through 6 babel of buzzing sounds. 'Lady's hurt pretty bad. If she ain't dead already. I just come OF duty five minutes ago So don't-Wait a second. Gentleman wants to speak to you"
 Then, through the buzz and whirr spoke another voice. Enthusiastically Jack Hawarden's.
 "Mr. Conover?" it ,called.
 "Yes!" yelled Caleb, driving the words by sheer force through the hor- TOT that sanded his throat, Go ahead!"
 You haven't even started?'' cried the boy, a break in his voice. "FoI Gods sake, come! Come now,''
 Gro De Contin ued.l