"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."