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"My brother lives at Jayville," explained the man, naming a station two stops ahead. "Jayville, eh?" repeated the farmer. "Been there. Went to the bank there once to sell a mortgage." "Indeed. An uncle of mine is an official of the bank." "Is that so, now?" said the farmer. "There's the mayor, there, too; sort of a distant relative of my first wife. Don't know him, do you?"
Then his sinewy hand closed on the collar of the swindler's coat. The train was slowing up just then, and a brake-man threw open the door of the coach with the announcement: "Jayville!" "I'm going to introduce you to the town," grinned the farmer. "Bolt, you varmint!" He ran the fellow down the car, the other passengers arising from their seats in excitement.
It is true that some so-called yellow journals succeed in making money; but while they employ perverts they have no use for Smart Alecs and amateurs. Amateur journalists, like dog-fennel and jimson weeds, usually blossom in Jayville.
But these poor old shabby dubs in their shabby duds a couple who were plebeian even in Jayville! If there had not been such a popular prejudice against mauling one's innocent parents about, Kedzie would probably have taken her father and mother to the dumb-waiter and sent them down to the ash-can. As she hung between despair and anxiety the telephone-bell rang.
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