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Updated: August 31, 2025
Leave fame and coin alone, sign away on a ship to-morrow, and go back to your sea." "Not for fame, but for love," Martin laughed. "Love seems to have no place in your Cosmos; in mine, Beauty is the handmaiden of Love." Brissenden looked at him pityingly and admiringly. "You are so young, Martin boy, so young.
"That's right that's the way to take it," the cub announced airily, though he had already begun to glance anxiously at the door. "But it wasn't true, not a word of what he wrote," Martin went on, confining his attention to Brissenden. "It was just in a general way a description, you understand," the cub ventured, "and besides, it's good advertising. That's what counts. It was a favor to you."
For the first time Martin's glorious sleep was interrupted by insomnia, and he tossed through long, restless nights. Three times he called at the Morse home, but was turned away by the servant who answered the bell. Brissenden lay sick in his hotel, too feeble to stir out, and, though Martin was with him often, he did not worry him with his troubles. For Martin's troubles were many.
Damn them, all of them, the crass manikins!" "Too much is written by the men who can't write about the men who do write," Martin concurred. "Why, I was appalled at the quantities of rubbish written about Stevenson and his work." "Ghouls and harpies!" Brissenden snapped out with clicking teeth.
Martin told him that his hatred of the magazines was rabid, fanatical, and that his conduct was a thousand times more despicable than that of the youth who burned the temple of Diana at Ephesus. Under the storm of denunciation Brissenden complacently sipped his toddy and affirmed that everything the other said was quite true, with the exception of the magazine editors.
Brissenden looked on gravely, though once he grew excited and gripped the whiskey bottle, pleading, "Here, just let me swat him once." "Sorry my hand played out," Martin said, when at last he desisted. "It is quite numb." He uprighted the cub and perched him on the bed. "I'll have you arrested for this," he snarled, tears of boyish indignation running down his flushed cheeks.
They disagreed about love, and the magazines, and many things, but they liked each other, and on Martin's part it was no less than a profound liking. Day after day they were together, if for no more than the hour Brissenden spent in Martin's stuffy room. Brissenden never arrived without his quart of whiskey, and when they dined together down-town, he drank Scotch and soda throughout the meal.
You are devilish strong. You are a young panther, a lion cub. Well, well, it is you who must pay for that strength." "What do you mean?" Martin asked curiously, passing aim a glass. "Here, down this and be good." "Because " Brissenden sipped his toddy and smiled appreciation of it. "Because of the women.
It was the usual two-story corner building, with a saloon and grocery underneath. "The gang lives here got the whole upstairs to themselves. But Kreis is the only one who has two rooms. Come on." No lights burned in the upper hall, but Brissenden threaded the utter blackness like a familiar ghost. He stopped to speak to Martin. "There's one fellow Stevens a theosophist.
Eden, and I've come to interview you," he began. Brissenden burst out in a hearty laugh. "A brother socialist?" the reporter asked, with a quick glance at Brissenden that appraised the color-value of that cadaverous and dying man. "And he wrote that report," Martin said softly. "Why, he is only a boy!" "Why don't you poke him?" Brissenden asked.
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