“If you bring in any more of this stuff,” the agent retorted, “it will be too much for both of us. This girl is clever. She’s the only person I ever met who can revise your sister’s poetry as well as I can.”
Now Jasper Crosby’s hawk eyes were fixed on Judy. He studied her for a moment while she met his gaze unflinchingly.
“Huh!” he grunted. “Watch your step, now. It takes queer people to revise queer poetry, and, mind you, this stuff has got to sell. Bring it out in book form. Jazz it up! Make it popular, and the public will eat it. That so, cutie?” He gave Judy’s cheek a playful pinch as he turned to leave.
“The nerve of him!” she expostulated. “He’s the most repulsive person I have ever seen.”
“Quite so,” the agent agreed. “Quite so and, strange to say, his sister was once the most charming. You can see it yet in some of her verses. I would be more enthusiastic about this book of her collected poems if I had any assurance that the royalties would go to her.”
“Why won’t they?” Judy asked.
“Because he tells me that her health is failing. Years ago I was witness to her will, and the entire estate goes to that scoundrel, Jasper Crosby.”
As Judy busied herself typing and correcting the poetry this thought kept recurring to her mind. Nevertheless, the work itself fascinated her. She conceived the idea of grouping the verses with a sub-title for each group. Miss Grimshaw beamed her pleasure.
“A fine idea, Miss Bolton, a really constructive idea. It will take considerable time but don’t try to hurry. Better keep the manuscripts on your own desk and have the thing done right.”
“Could I take them home?” Judy ventured the question and immediately wished she had not asked it.