Evening public ledger. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1914-1942, 1915-12-08

In time, he struggled to a sitting posi-
tion, looked wildly at John Marshall,
ana shout out, "Tm not the editor
elther! and once more collapsed.
John Marshall stood and stared down
at him. He did not smile. But the mer-
cru color came trickling back into his
face, and the agonized lines about his
mouth slowly relaxed.
At last Norman b. Adams could rise
and speak. And as he spoke, his good
looking face sobered: for what the end
of the matter would be now he could
no guess
Forgive my asininity. MIR. Marshall.
You've simply beaten us at our own game.
You see the editor of the Favorite Is a
little lame man, aged 50. l should put
his weight at 9s pounds He's a mighty
good fellow, Walter Ewell Bryce is, but
Mr.. Marshall" continued Adams earn
estly, IF 1 may say so, you're an aw-
fully neat letter writer. of course we
pictured you as a man seven feet tall,
with felt hi mean n big black felt
hat. and a couple of bowie knives stuck
into your top boots l happened to be
going to Richmond anyway, on business,
so we persuaded old Bryce"
But who are you, sir?'
oh. I'm Adams-really-a great friend
of his sons, Tommy Bryce. 1--we done
little amateur boxing at the New York
Athletic Club" he added diilidently And
then he came to sudden nervous stop,
awaiting the first words of the fiction
writer with unconcealable anxiety.
John Marshall stared intently at the
top of a tall oleander bush.
The affair of honor becomes some
what confused" said he slowly, biting
his lip Let me see. II heavyweight
champion licks the friend of an editors
son. exactly where do get off?"
It's equivalent to your licking the edt-
tor" said Adams eagerly. ASK anybody
any court of honor, and they'll tell you
the same. Why. you could make mon
Key Key Of Bryce, Mr. Marshall And oh, by
the way" he ran on hurriedly, "he let
out some mighty decent things to me
about your stuff Bryce did. He said that
story of yours, Made in Dixie"
"A Maid o. DlXie,'" corrected John
Marshall.
II mean "A Maid O. Dixie-would have
hocn acceptable but for some little tri-
hiur fnult of construction Irs all n trick.
you know-they have no end OF little
He broke off dead-stood rooted In his
tracks. girl all in white appeared sud
denly on the little awninged porch. and
her voice was the voice of a brook
dancing over clear. white stones.
"T won't intrude and be rebuffed again"
said she, "But-of course, you have made
Mr.. Adams promise to stay for dinner,
John?"
The fiction writer looked into the
mutely beseechng eyes OF the executor;
then looked off toward his sister.
We'll, of course Diana" he replied
without culver. "I am now asking
him to show cause why he shouldn't
spend n week with us"
with one flying glance the vision on
the porch seconded the invitation. and
was gone. Into Mr.. Adams cheek
streamed the revivifying pink.
II say, old chap" he stammered
huskily, this is awfully--awfully de-
cent OF you. I can't tell you how l.
"Gts regular part of the code" said
John Marshall dreamily. do you
know, I'm sort of sorry I pumped it
into Bryce so hard. He sounds like
pretty good fellow to me-
walt" said Adams, taking his hand
in n large firm grasp, Till you see the
bully letter he writes you when I so
back and tell him-well, what an old
brick you are"
Meantime" said Marshall. bethinking
himself of the duties of host, "as the
hour Is approaching dinner time | pro-
pose that we elude the ladies, and mosey
around in the direction of the dining
room. there to conclude the ceremonies
of honor. l hope I may say to you.
Adams. without seeming to brag, that our
old man Nose puts over the finest thing
in the nature of n mint julep that ever
n thirsty eye rested upon"
THE END.