All the art that Pettit had acquired was gone. A
perusal of its buttery phrases would have made a cynic of a sighing
chambermaid.
In the morning Pettit came to my room. I read him his doom
mercilessly. He laughed idiotically.
"All right, Old Hoss," he said, cheerily, "make cigar-lighters of it.
What's the difference? I'm going to take her to lunch at Claremont
to-day."
There was about a month of it. And then Pettit came to me bearing an
invisible mitten, with the fortitude of a dish-rag. He talked of the
grave and South America and prussic acid; and I lost an afternoon
getting him straight. I took him out and saw that large and curative
doses of whiskey were administered to him. I warned you this was a
true story--'ware your white ribbons if only follow this tale. For
two weeks I fed him whiskey and Omar, and read to him regularly every
evening the column in the evening paper that reveals the secrets of
female beauty. I recommend the treatment.
After Pettit was cured he wrote more stories. He recovered his
old-time facility and did work just short of good enough. Then the
curtain rose on the third act.
A little, dark-eyed, silent girl from New Hampshire, who was studying
applied design, fell deeply in love with him. She was the intense
sort, but externally _glace_, such as New England sometimes fools us
with. Pettit liked her mildly, and took her about a good deal. She
worshipped him, and now and then bored him.
Pages:
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103