Evening public ledger. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1914-1942, 1915-12-08
THE THRASHING OF THE EDITOR
BY HENRY sYDNoR HARRISON
you y, must tell me what it is"

You must tell me what it is"
couldn't YOU just let me take your
lawn mower" begged the editor, "and
and run it a few times over that
beautiful side lawn Of yours?"
The fiction writer stared at him.
1t is my favorite exercise" added
the editor, lying hastily. lat home,
"1f you are serious in your eStraor-
dinary request. sir" said John Marshall
In hard voice, "I-must decline to
grant It."
The editor made little gesture OF
resignation and despair.
"l-hoped that you might find Il pos
sible--for just half an hour Then,
goodby. lean find my way perfectly"
He turned and left the garden beau
tiful, with bowed head wended his way
to the ancient barn. Propped against
the barndoor blstering in the sun full
under his eye, stood a large, new, red
lawn mower. The editor stared at IT,
fascinated
There, not 20 yards away, stretched the
tangled and neglected side lawn--the one
blot on the perfect place Here. in his
very hand, was the ingenious instrument
which could erase that blot in almost the
wlnking OF an eye. And not soul was
in sight, anywhere
The editor, an OIympian in white.
seized the lawn mower and pushed it
cautiously over the luxuriant green,
looking about him furtively as he did
So The mower squeaked, but he pushed
on, cutting with dogEel ,fIic envy. Ben nth
his sense of guilt. beneath his deep gloom
he drew happiness from the small service
of love. He must soon depart forever
from the lovely old Marshall home, but
at least he would leave behind him a
subtle and sweet reminder OF his brief
visit TO Elyslum. There was one who
would look from her window in the days
to come upon the new-mown lawn, and
perhaps she would think
Feet trod upon the awnlnged side porch
of the house, now close by, and John Mar
shall advanced over the grass. And the
editor saw that his face was not menacing
las he had fearedD but was white as
death.
mfr. Adams. do you care to kick me,
sir?"
The editor leaned his white pongee arms
upon the handle of the lawn mower. Ten
derness came into his voice as he ad-
dressed Miss Diana Marshalls brother.
There's not a man In this world" said
he slowly, that ! hadn't rather kick
than you
Here in my own home, in sight of q
public street. here where my own servants
can see it-come," said Mr.. Marshall,
kick mel"
MAY the Lord strike my foot off be-
fore | do any such thing" said Adams.
Why, what on earth's singing you, old
Il mean what is the source of your wor-
riment, Mr.. Marshall?"
I'm a mar and a cad" said the fic-
tion writer, bravely looking the editor
in the eyes, THAT was not my brother
you fought with in the garden, Mr..
Adams"
Mr.. Adams, started bewldered. "Why,
what do you meanY
when you-when you laid your hands
on me there in the hotel" said John
Marshall, through white lips. II seemed
to 20 crazy. We are like that. II had
been born 20 years earlier, I would have
shot you down then and there. AS it
was--I did want to kill you. I-must have
lost my head entirely I named my
brother to represent me. l have no
brother, l.
"But-who was that splendid fellow.
then?"
RED Costigan, the heavyweight cham
plon of the Southern States" said Mr..
Marshall wildly. "Berkeley's his home.
Now do you see why l couldn't shake
hands with you. Now will you kick
me? Come, kick me! I insist upon 1t,
sir!'
With the face of death. he folded his
arms and stood In the approved position.
But instead of obeying that desperate
mandate, Mr.. Adams collapsed upon the
grass.
Feeling no impact in the nature of
foot, the writer of fiction slowly turned.
Mr. Adams was rolling about the lawn,
the victim of mysterious paroXysm,
kicking this way and that with his
white-shod feet. An astonishing eX-
hibltion he made of himself. prone and
paving the fragrant earth; yet there
hing arf1nga and unaffected