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"A hundred thousand dollars, cash, I believe? And a ten per cent royalty?" put in McCall quietly. "Exactly." Again Drennen nodded. "You want me to look it over with you, Sothern?" demanded McCall. "It isn't necessary, you know. Not now." "I want you to do me the favour, McCall," answered Sothern. "Mr.
The third man of the group, standing fronting the two, was a young looking fellow, tall and with the carriage of a soldier, wearing the uniform of an officer of the mounted police. Sothern rose, putting out his hand across the table. "Good morning, Mr. Drennen," he said evenly. "I am glad that you have come so soon. This is Mr.
One of his favourite tricks was to select some portly and self-important gentleman whom he saw passing along Piccadilly or Oxford Street, and, rushing up to him, to claim him as his dearly loved but long-lost uncle. The more strenuously the victim denied the relationship, the more eloquently pathetic and indignant became Sothern.
"My boy," said the man whose name had been Marshall Sothern through so many weary years that it was now more his name than any other, "there is the tale to tell . . . sometime. I can't do it now. One of these days . . . this has been the only dream I've dreamed since I saw you last, in Manhattan, David . . . you and I are going to pack off into the mountains.
His eyes were flaming and growing red; his face was splotched with colour, hot, angry colour; he was muttering to himself, little broken, feverish, illogical outpourings of the seething passion within him. He passed three men who were lounging and smoking. He did not turn his eyes toward them. They were the three big mining men, Madden and Hasbrook and Sothern.
"The only home he's got, his dugout." "Oho," cried Madden, suspicion giving place to certainty and open accusation, while Hasbrook, combing at his beard, was muttering in a like tone. "You'll take him off to yourself, will you? Where you can do as you damned please with him? Not much." Marshall Sothern merely shook his head and moved on, thrusting Madden to one side with his heavy shoulder.
Lemarc and Sefton, speaking together, had dropped far behind; Hasbrook was close to Madden's elbow. So they passed down the street. Ygerne Bellaire, standing now in front of Marquette's, watched them wonderingly. Sothern came first to the dugout. The door being open, he passed in without stopping. He laid the inert form down gently and came back to the door.
Duse is the soul made flesh, Réjane the flesh made Parisian, Sarah Bernhardt the flesh and the devil; but Julia Marlowe is the joy of life, the plenitude of sap in the tree. The personal appeal of Mr. Sothern and of Miss Marlowe is very different.
"It feels," cried the younger man sharply, his voice ringing with a hint of excitement which had been oddly lacking in him throughout the whole transaction, "like power! Like a power I've been hungering for for ten years! May I have your stenographer for a few moments, sir?" Sothern touched the buzzer and the clerk came in from the outer office. "Take Mr. Drennen's dictation," said Sothern.
"Well, I'm not sick any longer. In a day or so I'll be around again. Then I'll pay you for your trouble." And seeing from the look in Sothern's eyes that the rude insult had registered he laughed and turned his face away from them. Sothern and the girl stepped outside together, without a word. "He is just plain brute!" the girl cried with passionate contempt. The old man shook his head gravely.
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