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Bit by bit, the truth of the conspiracy had leaked, and he knew that his usefulness was ended, and that well-lined pocketbooks would no longer open to his profligate demands. The bravo and plotter whose measure has been taken is a broken reed. Farbish made no farewells. He had come from nowhere and his going was like his coming. Sally had started to school.
"I reckon I'd like it, all right," he said, "and I'll bring you back some ducks, if I'm lucky." So, Lescott arranged the outfit, and Samson awaited the news of the coming flights. That same evening, Farbish dropped into the studio, explaining that he had been buying a picture at Collasso's, and had taken the opportunity to stop by and hand Samson a visitor's card to the Kenmore Club.
"'So she showed me the way, to promotion and pay, And I learned about women from her," quoted Samson with a laugh. "And," she added, "since I am very vain and moderately rich, I hereby commission you to paint me, just as soon as you learn how." Farbish had simply dropped out.
Just now, he was feeling such bitterness for the Kentuckian that the foes of a less-personal sort seemed unimportant. In point of fact, Wilfred Horton had spent a very bad day. It was an item of which Farbish had known, in advance of publication, but Wilfred would never have seen that sheet, had it not been so carefully brought to his attention.
At its center, he stood wielding his impromptu weapon, and, when two of his assailants had fallen under its sweeping blows, and Farbish stood weakly supporting himself against the table and gasping for the breath which had been choked out of him, the mountaineer hurled aside his chair, and plunged for the sole remaining man. They closed in a clinch.
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