The day after the order was issued the managing
editor summoned a freckled youth and thrust a sheaf of
galley proofs into his hand.
"Take those to Mr. Griffith," he ordered without
looking up.
"T' who?"
"To Mr. Griffith," said the managing editor,
laboriously, and scowling a bit.
The boy took three unwilling steps toward the door.
Then he turned a puzzled face toward the managing editor.
"Say, honest, I ain't never heard of dat guy. He
must be a new one. W'ere'll I find him?"
"Oh, damn! Take those proofs to Blackie!" roared the
managing editor. And thus ended Blackie's enforced
flight into the realms of dignity.
All these things, and more, I wrote to the
scandalized Norah. I informed her that he wore more
diamond rings and scarf pins and watch fobs than a
railroad conductor, and that his checked top-coat
shrieked to Heaven.
There came back a letter in which every third word
was underlined, and which ended by asking what the morals
of such a man could be.
Then I tried to make Blackie more real to Norah who,
in all her sheltered life, had never come in contact with
a man like this.
" . . . As for his morals--or what you would consider
his morals, Sis--they probably are a deep crimson; but
I'll swear there is no yellow streak.
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