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Westbrook became "dearest" friends. Then one day a little tentacle of the octopus, just to amuse itself, ingurgitated Dawe's capital, and he moved to the Gramercy Park neighborhood where one, for a few groats per week, may sit upon one's trunk under eight-branched chandeliers and opposite Carrara marble mantels and watch the mice play upon the floor. Dawe thought to live by writing fiction.
I'll make you change the spelling of 'regrets' to 'c-h-e-q-u-e' before I'm done with you." "Have you read the last story I sent you 'The Alarum of the Soul'?" asked Dawe. "Carefully. I hesitated over that story, Shack, really I did. It had some good points. I was writing you a letter to send with it when it goes back to you. I regret " "Never mind the regrets," said Dawe, grimly.
"I think," said he, "that in real life the woman would express herself in those words or in very similar ones." "Not in a six hundred nights' run anywhere but on the stage," said Dawe hotly. "I'll tell you what she'd say in real life. She'd say: 'What! Bessie led away by a strange man? Good Lord! It's one trouble after another! Get my other hat, I must hurry around to the police-station.
He felt, too, the benign, tonic medicament of the trained nurse, Spring, tripping softly adown the wards of the convalescent city. Suspecting that he was about to be panhandled, he turned a cold and unprofitable face, and saw that his captor was Dawe Shackleford Dawe, dingy, almost ragged, the genteel scarcely visible in him through the deeper lines of the shabby.
"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." 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.
Again, in 1622, the prime minister, Honda Masazumi, lord of Utsunomiya, lost his fief of 150,000 koku and was exiled to Dawe for the sin of rebuilding his castle without due permission, and killing a soldier of the Bakufu.
To the fifth story they toiled, and Dawe, panting, pushed his latch-key into the door of one of the front flats. "Get a chair, if you can find one," said Dawe, "while I hunt up pen and ink. Hello, what's this? Here's a note from Louise. She must have left it there when she went out this morning." He picked up an envelope that lay on the centre-table and tore it open.
"How sad!" he cried. "Who then lives in his house yonder?" "Just a widow woman and her maid. They will not quit, they say, until a twelvemonth and a day be gone by from the time the rascal Dons laid hands on their master. They will have it that he will come back; and Mistress Dawe of Newnham, and a sailor-man named Dan of Plymouth, do hold with them."
"It is very likely that I would, if I believed that way," said the editor. "But I have explained to you that I do not." "If I could prove to you that I am right?" "I'm sorry, Shack, but I'm afraid I haven't time to argue any further just now." "I don't want to argue," said Dawe. "I want to demonstrate to you from life itself that my view is the correct one."
Now and then he sold a story. He submitted many to Westbrook. The Minerva printed one or two of them; the rest were returned. Westbrook sent a careful and conscientious personal letter with each rejected manuscript, pointing out in detail his reasons for considering it unavailable. So had Dawe. Mrs.
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