"
"What has all that got to do with me?" I demanded.
"A great deal," he said. "You'll get the pay. _I signed your name to
'em_."
"Y--you--you--you--did what?" I cried.
"Signed your name to 'em. There was a sonnet to 'A Coal Grab'--that
was the longest of the lot. I think it will cover at least six
magazine pages--"
"But," I cried, "a sonnet never contains more than fourteen lines--
you--fool!"
"Oh yes, it does," he replied, calmly. "This one of yours had over
four hundred. And then I wrote a three-page quatrain on
'Immortality,' which, if I do say it, is the funniest thing I ever
read. I sent that to the _Weekly Methodist_."
"Good Lord, good Lord, good Lord!" I moaned. "A three-page
quatrain!"
"Yes," he observed, calmly lighting one of his accursed cigars. "And
you'll get all the credit."
A ray of hope entered my soul, and it enabled me to laugh
hysterically. "They'll know it isn't mine," said I. "They know my
handwriting at the office of the _Weekly Methodist_."
"No doubt," said he, dashing all my hopes to the ground. "But--ah--
to remedy that drawback I took pains to find out what type-writer
you used, and I had my quatrain copied on one of the same make.
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