"It's Maupassant hash," said Mrs. Dawe. "It may not be art, but I
do wish you would do a five-course Marion Crawford serial with an
Ella Wheeler Wilcox sonnet for dessert. I'm hungry."
As far as this from success was Shackleford Dawe when he plucked
Editor Westbrook's sleeve in Madison Square. That was the first
time the editor had seen Dawe in several months.
"Why, Shack, is this you?" said Westbrook, somewhat awkwardly, for
the form of his phrase seemed to touch upon the other's changed
appearance.
"Sit down for a minute," said Dawe, tugging at his sleeve. "This
is my office. I can't come to yours, looking as I do. Oh, sit
down--you won't be disgraced. Those half-plucked birds on the
other benches will take you for a swell porch-climber. They won't
know you are only an editor."
"Smoke, Shack?" said Editor Westbrook, sinking cautiously upon
the virulent green bench. He always yielded gracefully when he
did yield.
Dawe snapped at the cigar as a kingfisher darts at a sunperch, or
a girl pecks at a chocolate cream.
"I have just--" began the editor.
"Oh, I know; don't finish," said Dawe. "Give me a match. You
have just ten minutes to spare. How did you manage to get past
my office-boy and invade my sanctum? There he goes now, throwing
his club at a dog that couldn't read the 'Keep off the Grass'
signs."
"How goes the writing?" asked the editor.
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