The Complete Short Stories. O. Hooper Henry

time ago a contribution was submitted to The Rose of Dixie that is one of the most remarkable literary efforts that has ever come under my observation. None but a master mind and talent could have produced it. It would just fill the space that I have reserved for its possible use.”

      Thacker looked anxious.

      “What kind of stuff is it?” he asked. “Eight thousand words sounds suspicious. The oldest families must have been collaborating. Is there going to be another secession?”

      “The author of the article,” continued the colonel, ignoring Thacker’s allusions, “is a writer of some reputation. He has also distinguished himself in other ways. I do not feel at liberty to reveal to you his name — at least not until I have decided whether or not to accept his contribution.”

      “Well,” said Thacker, nervously, “is it a continued story, or an account of the unveiling of the new town pump in Whitmire, South Carolina, or a revised list of General Lee’s body-servants, or what?”

      “You are disposed to be facetious,” said Colonel Telfair, calmly. “The article is from the pen of a thinker, a philosopher, a lover of mankind, a student, and a rhetorician of high degree.”

      “It must have been written by a syndicate,” said Thacker. “But, honestly, Colonel, you want to go slow. I don’t know of any eight-thousand-word single doses of written matter that are read by anybody these days, except Supreme Court briefs and reports of murder trials. You haven’t by any accident gotten hold of a copy of one of Daniel Webster’s speeches, have you?”

      Colonel Telfair swung a little in his chair and looked steadily from under his bushy eyebrows at the magazine promoter.

      “Mr. Thacker,” he said, gravely, “I am willing to segregate the somewhat crude expression of your sense of humor from the solicitude that your business investments undoubtedly have conferred upon you. But I must ask you to cease your jibes and derogatory comments upon the South and the Southern people. They, sir, will not be tolerated in the office of The Rose of Dixie for one moment. And before you proceed with more of your covert insinuations that I, the editor of this magazine, am not a competent judge of the merits of the matter submitted to its consideration, I beg that you will first present some evidence or proof that you are my superior in any way, shape, or form relative to the question in hand.”

      “Oh, come, Colonel,” said Thacker, good-naturedly. “I didn’t do anything like that to you. It sounds like an indictment by the fourth assistant attorney-general. Let’s get back to business. What’s this 8,000 to 1 shot about?”

      “The article,” said Colonel Telfair, acknowledging the apology by a slight bow, “covers a wide area of knowledge. It takes up theories and questions that have puzzled the world for centuries, and disposes of them logically and concisely. One by one it holds up to view the evils of the world, points out the way of eradicating them, and then conscientiously and in detail commends the good. There is hardly a phase of human life that it does not discuss wisely, calmly, and equitably. The great policies of governments, the duties of private citizens, the obligations of home life, law, ethics, morality — all these important subjects are handled with a calm wisdom and confidence that I must confess has captured my admiration.”

      “It must be a crackerjack,” said Thacker, impressed.

      “It is a great contribution to the world’s wisdom,” said the colonel. “The only doubt remaining in my mind as to the tremendous advantage it would be to us to give it publication in The Rose of Dixie is that I have not yet sufficient information about the author to give his work publicity in our magazine.

      “I thought you said he is a distinguished man,” said Thacker.

      “He is,” replied the colonel, “both in literary and in other more diversified and extraneous fields. But I am extremely careful about the matter that I accept for publication. My contributors are people of unquestionable repute and connections, which fact can be verified at any time. As I said, I am holding this article until I can acquire more information about its author. I do not know whether I will publish it or not. If I decide against it, I shall be much pleased, Mr. Thacker, to substitute the matter that you are leaving with me in its place.”

      Thacker was somewhat at sea.

      “I don’t seem to gather,” said he, “much about the gist of this inspired piece of literature. It sounds more like a dark horse than Pegasus to me.”

      “It is a human document,” said the colonel-editor, confidently, “from a man of great accomplishments who, in my opinion, has obtained a stronger grasp on the world and its outcomes than that of any man living to-day.”

      Thacker rose to his feet excitedly.

      “Say!” he said. “It isn’t possible that you’ve cornered John D. Rockefeller’s memoirs, is it? Don’t tell me that all at once.”

      “No, sir,” said Colonel Telfair. “I am speaking of mentality and literature, not of the less worthy intricacies of trade.”

      “Well, what’s the trouble about running the article,” asked Thacker, a little impatiently, “if the man’s well known and has got the stuff?”

      Colonel Telfair sighed.

      “Mr. Thacker,” said he, “for once I have been tempted. Nothing has yet appeared in The Rose of Dixie that has not been from the pen of one of its sons or daughters. I know little about the author of this article except that he has acquired prominence in a section of the country that has always been inimical to my heart and mind. But I recognize his genius; and, as I have told you, I have instituted an investigation of his personality. Perhaps it will be futile. But I shall pursue the inquiry. Until that is finished, I must leave open the question of filling the vacant space in our January number.”

      Thacker arose to leave.

      “All right, Colonel,” he said, as cordially as he could. “You use your own judgment. If you’ve really got a scoop or something that will make ’em sit up, run it instead of my stuff. I’ll drop in again in about two weeks. Good luck!”

      Colonel Telfair and the magazine promoter shook hands.

      Returning a fortnight later, Thacker dropped off a very rocky Pullman at Toombs City. He found the January number of the magazine made up and the forms closed.

      The vacant space that had been yawning for type was filled by an article that was headed thus:

      Second Message To Congress

       Written for

      THE ROSE OF DIXIE

      BY

       A Member of the Well-known

       BULLOCH FAMILY, OF GEORGIA

       T. Roosevelt

The Third Ingredient

       Table of Contents

      The (so-called) Vallambrosa Apartment-House is not an apartment-house. It is composed of two old-fashioned, brownstone-front residences welded into one. The parlor floor of one side is gay with the wraps and headgear of a modiste; the other is lugubrious with the sophistical promises and grisly display of a painless dentist. You may have a room there for two dollars a week or you may have one for twenty dollars. Among the Vallambrosa’s roomers are stenographers, musicians, brokers, shopgirls, space-rate writers, art students, wire-tappers, and other people who lean far over the banister-rail when the doorbell rings.

      This treatise shall have to do with but two of the Vallambrosians — though meaning no disrespect to the others.

      At six o’clock one afternoon Hetty Pepper came back to her third-floor rear $3.50 room in the Vallambrosa with her nose and chin more sharply pointed than usual. To be discharged from the department store where you have been working four