You must write to me or I shall withdraw my avuncular relation to you.
With good will to all your people—particularly Phyllis—I am sincerely your friend, Ambrose Bierce.
Angwin, Calif.,
April 16,
1893.
My dear Partington,
I think you wrong. On your own principle, laid down in your letter, that "every man has a right to the full value of his labor"—pardon me, good Englishman, I meant "laboUr"—you have a right to your wage for the laboṷr of teaching Leigh. And what work would he get to do but for you?
I can't hold you and inject shekels into your pocket, but if the voice of remonstrance has authority to enter at your ear without a ticket I pray you to show it hospitality.
Leigh doubtless likes to see his work in print, but I hope you will not let him put anything out until it is as good as he can make it—nor then if it is not good enough. And that whether he signs it or not. I have talked to him about the relation of conscience to lab-work, but I don't know if my talk all came out at the other ear.
O—that bad joke o' mine. Where do you and Richard expect to go when death do you part? You were neither of you present that night on the dam, nor did I know either of you. Blanche, thank God, retains the old-time reverence for truth: it was to her that I said it. Richard evidently dreamed it, and you—you've been believing that confounded Wave! Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.