Evening public ledger. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1914-1942, 1915-12-06
THE THRASHING OF THE EDITOR

can't reach 'em. For another-oh, we'll,
what's the use OF going into personal
details. I can't fight you, confound the
luck. My reasons should be selfevident.
But II you make any more of those fool
brandishes, I'll turn you over my knee
right here in the lobby"
The editor smiled hard into the fiction-
writer's eyes for about half minute.
Then he released his cruel grip. John
Marshall hesitated. then he turned un-
certainly, and gazed blndly out Of the
window
Now, Of course know quite well that
this is horribly wrong, screetchingly on
the wrong note" All the heroes ever
read about, catch them how you will,
have been terribly efficient fighters.
With fats they lick bargemen, stevedores
and presidents OF longsnoremen's unions;
with guns they easily get the drop on
Arizona bad men; with swords they pink
the French count, with rapiers run
through the villalnous italian. Nor does
any man live who can best them at jiu-
Jitsu, or back-alley savate with machete
or long-spear, with bolero or boomerang.
But truth Is inexorable. Your writing
chap, masterful creator Of uproarlous
demlgods is himself thin -chested fell
low, with sedentary muscles and the
hands of an anemic lady. In the editors
stunning physique, John Marshall could
have found convincing proof OF his own
favorite thesis, viz: that editors know
nothing whatever about writing. He him
self the writer, was the editors longi-
tudinal inferior by cool foot. The
humiliating confession can be deferred
no longer. John Marshall for all his
valorous spirit, weighed but i0I pounds.
He himself had forgotten this annihilat-
Ing fact for space. Now he was remem-
bering It.
John Marshall was 21 years old, and
this was his first affair of honor. It was
| not going by the books at all. II was
not fear that chained him there, gazing
bllndly out of the window; you are not to
think that. No 300-pound hero treads the
pages of fiction reader to face death than
Mr.. Marshall was at that moment. what
paralyzed him was the editors grisly
threat Death, curses on II, was denied
to him. But he could not conceal from
himself the knowledge that this editorial
giant could turn him over his knee, and
that he would SO turn him, and release
him laughing stock for all men TO his
death.
Let the linotype gallop over this bitter
moment. When John Marshall, wheeling,
white to the eyes. suggested pistols. the
editor took pains to answer soothingly.
He was, In fact, most anxious to avoid
the shame of having to assault an op-
ponent out of his class by 70 pounds.
Nevertheless, his grievance remained;
and out OF II presently grew suggestion
namely, that the writer should name
somebody to represent him in the af-
fair.
Come, Mr.. Marshall" said the debon-
nair but determined young man. II be-
lleve In your pluck, but can't fight you.
That's fiat. It's either somebody else.
or no fight at all. Now we both want
some action for our money; and for my
part have taken long journey In order
to leave some mark of my disapproval of
the ways of you Southern iirc-eaters.
Come, be a sport. Isn't there somebody
in the immediate family who would like
to take up the quarrel? Say your grand
father? or perhaps your tallest uncle?"
John Marshall hardly heard the Bit
ter insult. His gray eyes glittered over
the sudden hot thought in his BRAIN.
'Since you are afraid to fight me- sir
he chung passionately to that way of put
ting It'll have not doubt you would be
glad to meet my older brother?'
That's the talk" said the editor. in
terestedly. ~ confess to being wild for
a few passes at somebody bearing your
honored name"
so the brother was agreed upon. Con
else talk followed. The retired spot on
| the Marshall grounds was fixed as the
| place OF meeting" 1870 as the hour
! John Marshall raised his ancient felt,
| bowling low. The editor hoisted his shin
ing Panama, bowling even lower.
II have. the honor, sir, to wish you
| very good day."
so long, Mr. Marshall" said the editor.
! At 11:20, resplendent Mr.. Adams stood
! motionless and silent in the ancient loft
OF the Marshall barn, his featherwelght
/ bag of business togs lying open hut un-
| needed at his feet. Mr.. Adams stood
/ glued to the window.
CONTINUED TOMORROW