Up he would go to the Green-street home, and rouse him up. Mr. Blaine would come down in his study-gown and slippers and say,—
“What, that copy given out?”
“Yes, sir, and we will have to have more right away!”
“Well, what did he do, sit right down and dash it off for you?”
“Yes, sometimes, and sometimes he would take the scissors.”
This was said with a mild, significant smile.
Mr. Blaine could write anywhere, and did much of it out in the dining-room on the supper-table, with his family all about him. He would become oblivious of all surroundings, and with his power of penetration and concentration, adapt himself to his work, utterly lost to circumstances.
He had no mercy on meanness. It roused his whole nature. He would walk the floor at home, plan his articles, think out his sentences, and send everything to the printer just as he had written it first,—but when he came to correct the proof he would erase and interline until the article had passed almost beyond the power of recognition. His finishing touches were a new creation.
Of course the poor printers never said anything either solemn or wise at such times, especially when driven to the final point of desperation. But they could not get mad at him, and there was no use trying. Dan said,—
“He would just as soon shake hands with a man dressed up as I am now, with this old suit of overalls on, and sit down and talk with him as with the richest man in town.”