The door opened lightly. The editor was conscious of a faint odor of scented soap, a sensation of freshness and cleanliness, the impression of a soft hand like a womans on his shoulder and, like a womans, momentarily and playfully caressing, the passage of a graceful shadow across his desk, and the next moment Jack Hamlin was ostentatiously dusting a chair with an open newspaper preparatory to sitting down.
You ought to ship that office-boy of yours, if he cant keep things cleaner, he said, suspending his melody to eye grimly the dust which Mr. Bowers had shaken from his departing feet.
The editor did not look up until he had finished revising a difficult paragraph. By that time Mr. Hamlin had comfortably settled himself on a cane sofa, and, possibly out of deference to his surroundings, had subdued his song to a peculiarly low, soft, and heartbreaking whistle as he unfolded a newspaper. Clean and faultless in his appearance, he had the rare gift of being able to get up at two in the afternoon with much of the dewy freshness and all of the moral superiority of an early riser.
You ought to have been here just now, Jack, said the editor.
Not a row, old man, eh? inquired Jack, with a faint accession of interest.
No, said the editor, smiling. Then he related the incidents of the previous interview, with a certain humorous exaggeration which was part of his nature. But Jack did not smile.
You ought to have booted him out of the ranch on sight, he said. What right had he to come here prying into a ladys affairs?at least a lady as far as HE knows. Of course shes some old blowzy with frumpled hair trying to rope in a greenhorn with a string of words and phrases, concluded Jack, carelessly, who had an equally cynical distrust of the sex and of literature.
Thats about what I told him, said the editor.
Thats just what you SHOULDNT have told him, returned Jack. You ought to have stuck up for that woman as if shed been your own mother. Lord! you fellows dont know how to run a magazine. You ought to let ME sit on that chair and tackle your customers.
What would you have done, Jack? asked the editor, much amused to find that his hitherto invincible hero was not above the ordinary human weakness of offering advice as to editorial conduct.
Done? reflected Jack. Well, first, sonny, I shouldnt keep a revolver in a drawer that I had to OPEN to get at.
But what would you have said?
I should simply have asked him what was the price of lumber at Mendocino, said Jack, sweetly, and when he told me, I should have said that the samples he was offering out of his own head wouldnt suit. You see, you dont want any trifling in such matters. You write well enough, my boy, continued he, turning over his paper, but what youre lacking in is editorial dignity. But go on with your work. Dont mind me.
Thus admonished, the editor again bent over his desk, and his friend softly took up his suspended song. The editor had not proceeded far in his corrections when Jacks voice again broke the silence.
Where are those dd verses, anyway?
Without looking up, the editor waved his pencil towards an uncut copy of the Excelsior Magazine lying on the table.
You dont suppose Im going to READ them, do you? said Jack, aggrievedly. Why dont you say what theyre about? Thats your business as editor.
But that functionary, now wholly lost and wandering in the non-sequitur of an involved passage in the proof before him, only waved an impatient remonstrance with his pencil and knit his brows. Jack, with a sigh, took up the magazine.
A long silence followed, broken only by the hurried rustling of sheets of copy and an occasional exasperated start from the editor. The sun was already beginning to slant a dusty beam across his desk; Jacks whistling had long since ceased. Presently, with an exclamation of relief, the editor laid aside the last proof-sheet and looked up.
Jack Hamlin had closed the magazine, but with one hand thrown over the back of the sofa he was still holding it, his slim forefinger between its leaves to keep the place, and his handsome profile and dark lashes lifted towards the window. The editor, smiling at this unwonted abstraction, said quietly,
Well, what do you think of them?
Jack rose, laid the magazine down, settled his white waistcoat with both hands, and lounged towards his friend with audacious but slightly veiled and shining eyes. They sort of sing themselves to you, he said, quietly, leaning beside the editors desk, and looking down upon him. After a pause he said, Then you dont know what shes like?
Thats what Mr. Bowers asked me, remarked the editor.
Dn Bowers!
I suppose you also wish me to write and ask for permission to give you her address? said the editor, with great gravity.
No, said Jack, coolly. I propose to give it to YOU within a week, and you will pay me with a breakfast. I should like to have it said that I was once a paid contributor to literature. If I dont give it to you, Ill stand you a dinner, thats all.
Done! said the editor. And you know nothing of her now?
No, said Jack, promptly. Nor you?
No more than I have told you.
Thatll do. So long! And Jack, carefully adjusting his glossy hat over his curls at an ominously wicked angle, sauntered lightly from the room. The editor, glancing after his handsome figure and hearing him take up his pretermitted whistle as he passed out, began to think that the contingent dinner was by no means an inevitable prospect.
Howbeit, he plunged once more into his monotonous duties. But the freshness of the day seemed to have departed with Jack, and the later interruptions of foreman and publisher were of a more practical character. It was not until the post arrived that the superscription on one of the letters caught his eye, and revived his former interest. It was the same hand as that of his unknown contributors manuscriptill-formed and boyish. He opened the envelope. It contained another poem with the same signature, but also a notemuch longer than the brief lines that accompanied the first contributionwas scrawled upon a separate piece of paper. This the editor opened first, and read the following, with an amazement that for the moment dominated all other sense:
MR. EDITOR,I see you have got my poetry in. But I dont see the spondulix that oughter follow. Perhaps you dont know where to send it. Then Ill tell you. Send the money to Lock Box 47, Green Springs P. O., per Wells Fargos Express, and Ill get it there, on account of my parents not knowing. Were very high-toned, and they would think its low making poetry for papers. Send amount usually paid for poetry in your papers. Or may be you think I make poetry for nothing? Thats where you slip up!
Yours truly,
WHITE VIOLET.
P. S.If you dont pay for poetry, send this back. Its as good as what you did put in, and is just as hard to make. You hear me? thats meall the time.
WHITE VIOLET.
The editor turned quickly to the new contribution for some corroboration of what he felt must be an extraordinary blunder. But no! The few lines that he hurriedly read breathed the same atmosphere of intellectual repose, gentleness, and imagination as the first contribution. And yet they were in the same handwriting as the singular missive, and both were identical with the previous manuscript.
Had he been the victim of a hoax, and were the verses not original? No; they were distinctly original, local in color, and even local in the use of certain old English words that were common in the Southwest. He had before noticed the apparent incongruity of the handwriting and the text, and it was possible that for the purposes of disguise the poet might have employed an amanuensis. But how could he reconcile the incongruity of the mercenary and slangy purport of the missive itself with the mental habit of its author? Was it possible that these inconsistent qualities existed in the one individual? He smiled grimly as he thought of his visitor Bowers and his friend Jack. He was startled as he remembered the purely imaginative picture he had himself given to the seriously interested Bowers of the possible incongruous personality of the poetess.