Pine Bluff daily graphic., 1914-07-29
 CHAPTER XVIII.
The Irony of Fate.

'
 Wentworth locked himself in the M- brary one Saturday morning Oswald, with quiet insistence, had continued the demand that he break away, go home, and begin work n another play.
 "Business can be carried along with out you," was his daily assurance. "'The House of Esterbrook' is good for another season, perhaps for more than.one, and we ought to look ahead. am asked every day if you are writ. ing another play. You ought to strike while the iron is hot. The luck we are having should be an inspiration to you"
 The, Waverly Place house was per. fectly still. Enoch seated himself be- fore the desk, cleared off the blotter, laid out a heap of copy paper. filled the ink-weil, and adjusted a new pen. He leaned his head upon his hand for a few minutes. and his listless eyes fell upon a calendar He dis covered that it bore the dates of March instead of April He tore off thetrecord of weeks which had passed and dropped it into the waste basket. The pen rested listlessly between his fingers. When he tried to write with 1t the ink had dried. He did not dip it in the bottle again. A trail of sleep less days and nights lay behind him he felt as if his brain had drowsed at it's post.
 He picked up rubber band, twisted 1t about his fingers, then pulled 1t thin till it suddenly snapped in two. He shook himself as if strenuous effort to wake up. For days he had been evolving what seemed like a virile plot for play. He tramped the streets to do his thinking and planned the scenario from beginning to end. The night before he had locked him. self in his office at the Gotham and in frenzy cf haste shaped out each scene on his typewriter.
 The manuscript lay at his elbow. He read 1t through. Suddenly he re- alized that the stuff fell short, of -7hat ;, could not decide. It lacked reality. He compared it with Merry s drama. The story in that rose up out of the paper, each character a living, breathing man or woman. This story was dead, absolutely dead. He lifted the sheets and deliberately tore them across, gritting his teeth while the paper dipped, as man does when he is in pain.
 He picked up a letter which lay be side him on the desk. It was ad. dressed in Merry's irregular writing There was nothing inside the envelope but a check for an amount in i've figures. Wentworth glanced at 1t, then tore 1t across. He had sent the check to the actor without word; it repre-. sented the entire royalties on the House of Esterbrook." The mail brought it back to him as it had gone A small clock ticked out the time on top of the desk. He remembered 1t was Christmas gift from Merry. The ceaseless round of it's secondhand fas' cinated him. Tt would be great if one could worh as that ridiculous; needle does." he thought, slt :: such lifelike thing It goes on with a regularity that feazes man, never pausing day oI night, never dropping out or baking as we humans do when the brain goes numb. l wonder" Enoch loafed back in his chair, T wonder if it is too late to come back. It does not seem pos sible that man could undergo phy siea] change in few months while he is still hale and hearty. They say such a thing does come. though-quick as scat. when your arteries harden, ol something of that sort happens. I'm forty-two. A man isn't old at forty two. and yeti feel old today l sup pose," he stared steadily at the face of the little clock as if it were a hu man countenance, T suppose this is part of the scheme they call retribu ton"
 He uttered the last word in an un dertone as if some one were within hearing. There had been moments especially in the dead of night-wher he had longed to lay bare his soul tt . father confessor. The consciencs ] which had slept for months awok.