He sneered at our
journalistic methods, and called the newspapers "country
sheets," and was forever talking of the World, and the
Herald, and the Sun, until the men at the Press Club
fought shy of him. Norah had found quiet and comfortable
quarters for Peter in a boarding-house near the lake, and
just a square or two distant from my own boarding-house.
He hated it cordially, as only the luxury-loving can hate
a boarding-house, and threatened to leave daily.
"Let's go back to the big town, Dawn, old girl," he
would say. "We're buried alive in this overgrown Dutch
village. I came here in the first place on your account.
Now it's up to you to get me out of it. Think of what New
York means! Think of what I've been! And I can write as
well as ever."
But I always shook my head. "We would not last a
month in New York, Peter. New York has hurried on and
left us behind. We're just two pieces of discard. We'll
have to be content where we are."
"Content! In this silly hole! You must be mad!"
Then, with one of his unaccountable changes of tone and
topic, "Dawn, let me have some money. I'm strapped. If
I had the time I'd get out some magazine stuff. Anything
to get a little extra coin.
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