“A representative of the Brushville Express.”
“Oh,” said I, “I am very sorry—but I’m asleep.”
“Please let me in; I won’t detain you very long.”
“I guess you won’t. Now, please do not insist. I am tired, upset, ill, and I want rest. Come to-morrow morning.”
“No, I can’t do that,” answered the voice behind the door; “my paper appears in the morning, and I want to put in something about you.”
“Now, do go away,” I pleaded, “there’s a good fellow.”
“I must see you,” insisted the voice.
“You go!” I cried, “you go——” without mentioning any place.
For a couple of minutes there was silence, and I thought the interviewer was gone. The illusion was sweet, but short. There was another knock, followed by a “I really must see you to-night.” Seeing that there would be no peace until I had let the reporter in, I unbolted the door, and jumped back into my—you know.
