It was long past the lunch hour when the prima donna
and the prize-fighter, properly embellished, were snapped
on the copy hook. The prima donna had chattered in
French; the prize-fighter had jabbered in slang; but the
charming old maid, who spoke Milwaukee English, was to
make better copy than a whole chorus of prima donnas, or
a ring full of fighters. Copy! It was such wonderful
stuff that I couldn't use it.
It was with the charming old maid in mind that
Norberg summoned me.
"Another special story for you," he cheerfully
announced.
No answering cheer appeared upon my lunchless
features. "A prize-fighter at ten-thirty, and a prima
donna at twelve. What's the next choice morsel? An
aeronaut with another successful airship? or a cash girl
who has inherited a million?"
Norberg's plump cheeks dimpled. "Neither. This time
it is a nice German old maid."
"Eloped with the coachman, no doubt?"
"I said a nice old maid. And she hasn't done
anything yet. You are to find out how she'll feel when
she does it."
"Charmingly lucid," commented I, made savage by the
pangs of hunger.
Norberg proceeded to outline the story with
characteristic vigor, a cigarette waggling from the
corner of his mouth.
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