“By a bat?” queried Herbert.
“Yes. You see the old chap was a colonel in the Civil War—one of the bravest men that ever led a regiment. Well, while he was reading a bat flew into the room, and the things that happened during the next half hour were funny enough to make a sick cat well. The old colonel picked up his cane and chased that bird all around the room. The light bewildered the bat and caused it to flounder around so blindly that half of the ornaments in the room were broken. The colonel thought he had it at one time, though, and lifted up his cane to give the bird its death blow; but he missed by a hair, and instead of killing the pesky thing, he smashed two big vases that stood on the mantel-piece. Then when he made another lunge at it his stick went through an oil painting which I believe has been in his family for nearly a hundred years. It was daylight before that bird was thrust out of the room, and when the first streak of dawn penetrated into the apartment the floors and walls resembled some place which had just finished an unsuccessful siege with the enemy.”
“Why, that’s a pretty good story,” cried Herbert quickly, “and if you will give me the privilege of talking to the old colonel and the chance to look at that room, I will thank you to the day of my death.”
The superintendent was only too well pleased to do this. Herbert obtained a picture of the valiant soldier, and borrowing a camera from one of the inmates, made a photograph of the dismantled room. He hurried home, and before midnight had succeeded in grinding out an exceedingly interesting special which was entitled “The Story of the Union Soldier and the Bat.” He turned this over to Tomlin in the morning, and when they met in the evening again that young man said with a considerable degree of self-satisfaction:
“Your story is accepted and will be printed, and you will be paid for it on the first of the month.”
“But I—they—” began Herbert.
“Oh,” interrupted the other impatiently, “I know what you are going to say. I know that you are blacklisted, but that has nothing to do with the case. A man must earn a living, and you have a right to your bread and butter. Besides this is a justifiable deception. I am going to keep on selling your stuff as my own as long as you have wit enough to write. The articles will be typewritten, and the editors who buy them from me will not know the difference except,” with a little laugh, “they will be a little more brilliant than the kind I am in the habit of writing.”
“You think it’s all right?” ventured Herbert.
“Of course it’s all right. Where’s the harm? No name is signed to the articles. The newspapers get the worth of their money. The readers are satisfied. You are reimbursed, and I am gratified. What more would you want?”
Herbert soon came around to this way of thinking, and then and there started in on another article, which proved equally as saleable as the first. Elated by the success of these two articles, he planned a series of Sunday specials, chiefly sketches of odd phases of life in New York City. He was industry personified, and worked so adroitly in gathering his facts that his identity was fully concealed. One morning, just as he was about to leave the house he received a letter; and on tearing open the envelope, found that it was dated from a small town in the northern part of Connecticut. It was as follows: