I had a cigar box under my arm.
Just then, as luck would have it, the old lady came up and greeted me.
She gave me a reproachful look.
"I'm afraid you are smoking too much for your health. I never see you now, without a cigar box under your arm," she said, in her motherly way.
"Oh, it isn't that, I assure you," I hastened to declare, "but the fact is, I'm moving again."
And speaking of those days, puts me in mind of a little thing that happened to me about that time.
I was working as a reporter then, and the managing editor complained that my material was quite too far stretched.
That is, he said I cost them too much money in telegraphic tools, and desired me to condense the details.
They could do all the romancing at the office, for we had men especially employed for that purpose, who, given a few facts for a foundation, could build up the most astonishing account imaginable.