Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1914-03-24
SOUTH PARIS, MAINE, TUESDAY, MARCH "a, 1914.

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how to get there"
The two men went out into the whirl
ing snow, and the agent waved hant
indefinitely up at the night.
"If 1t was clear" he said. you coult
see Baldpate mountain over yondel
looking down on the falls, sort Of keep
ing an eye on US to make sure VIZ
don't get reckless. And halfway uE
you'd see Baldpate inn. black ant
peaceful and wintery. Just follow
this street to the third corner and turr
to your left. Elijah lives In q little
house back among the trees mile out
There's a gate you'll sure hear creak
ing on a night like this"
Billy Magee thanked him and, gath
ering up his two bags, walked uT
Main street. A dreary, forbiddinl
building at the first corner bore the
sign Commercial House."
Weep no more. my lady.
Oh. weep no more today!
hummed Mr.. Magee cynically under
his breath and glanced up at the soil
tary upstairs window that cleaned
yellow In the night.
At corner on which stood q little
shop that advertised Groceries and
Provisions" he paused.
"Let me see," he pondered. 1.-THE
lights will be turned of. Of course.
Candles and little something for the
inner man In case it's the closed sea-
son for cooks"
he went inside, where q weary old
woman served him.
"Wbat sort Of candles" she In.
quired, with the air Of one who had
an infinite variety In stock. Mr.. Ma
gee remembered that Christmas was
near.
"For q Christmas tree" he explain
I'd. He asked for two hundred.
1--WE only got forty" the woman
said. "whats this tree for-the Or
phans' home?
With the added burden Of package
containing his purchases in the tiny
store Mr.. Magee emerged and contin,
ued bis journey through the stinging
snow.
Don Quixote, my boy" he mutter-
ed, Il know how you felt when you
moved on the windmills."
II was not the whir Of windmills,
but the creak Of a gate in the storm
that brought Mr.. Magee at last to a
stop. He walked gladly up the path
to Elijah Quimby's door.
In answer to Billy Magee's gay
knock, a man of about sixty years ap-
peared. Evidently he had just finish
ed supper. at the moment he was
engaged in lighting his pipe. He ad-
mitted Mr.. Magee into the intimacy
of the kitchen. and took number OF
calm judlcious puffs on the pipe be-
fore speaking to his visitor.
"My names Magee" blithely ex-
planned that gentleman, dragging in
his bags. And you're Elijah Quimby,
of course. How are you? Glad to see
you"
The older man did not reply. but
regarded Mr.. Magee wonderingly
through white puffs of smoke. His
face was kindly, gentle, Intellectual.
EYES," he admitted at last. "Yes,
I'm Quimby."
Mr.. Mugee threw back his coat. and
sprayed with snow Mrs. Quimby's i'm
maculate floor.
"I'm Magee," he elucidated again,
civilian Hallowell Magee, the man
Hal Bentley wrote to you about. You
got his letter, didn't your
Mr.. Quimby removed his pipe and
forgot to close the aperture as he
stared in amazement
"Good Lord" he cried; you don't
mean-you've really conner Why. we
we thought 1t was all a joke"
Hal Bentley has his humorous mo-
ments," agreed Mr.. Magee. but 1t
isn't his habit to fling his jests into
Upper Asquewan Falls"
"And-and you're really going to-
Mr.. Quimby could get no further.
"Yes," said Mr.. Magee brightly. slip
ping into a rocking chair. "Yes; I'm
going to spend the next few months
ut Baldpate inn."
"It's closed" expostulated Mr.. Quinn
by. 1.-THE inn is closed, young fellow"
II know it's closed" smiled Magee.
That's the very reason I'm going to
honor it with my presence. I'm sorry
| to take you out on night like this.
but I'll have to ask you to lead me up
to Baldpate. / believe those were Hal
Bentley's instructions-in the letter.
Mr.. Quimby lowered above Mr.. Ma
gee, a shirt sleeved statue OF honest
American manhood. He scowled.
Excuse a plain question, young
man." he said. but what are you hid
ing fromT
"I'm not hiding" said Magee. Didn't
Bentley explain? Well. I'll try to.
though I'm not sure you'll understand.
Sit down, Mr.. Quimby. You are not, l
take 1t, the sort Of man to follow close
ly the frivolous literature Of the day."
whats that?" inquired Mr.. Quimby.
"You don't read" continued Mr.. Ma
gee, "the sort of novels that are sold
by the pound in the department stores.
Now, If you had a daughter-a fluffy
daughter inseparable from a hammock
| In the summer-she could help me ex-
plain. You see-I write those novels.
Wild thrilling tales for the tired busi-
ness mans tired wife-shots IN the
night, chases after fortunes, Cupid
busy with his arrows all over the
place! It's good fun. and like to DO
It. There's money in It."
"Is thereT asked Mr.. Quimby, with
show of interest
considerable" replied Mr.. Magee.
"But now and then get q longing to
do something that will make the critics
sit up-the real thing, you know. The
other day 1 picked up newspaper and
found my latest brain child advertised
as the best fall novel Magee ever
wrote It got on my nerves. l feit
like a literary dressmaker. and l could
see my public laying down my fall
novel and sighlng for my early spring
STYLES In fiction. remembered that
once upon a time q critic advised me
to 70 away for ten years to some quiet
spot and think. l decided to do 1t.
Baldpate inn is the quiet spot"