(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)
Jack the Giant Killer
The other day a lady canvasser came up into the Post editorial room with a book she was selling. She went into the editor-in-chief’s office, and her little five-year-old girl, who came up with her, remained in the outer rooms, doubtless attracted by the brilliant and engaging appearance of the staff, which was lolling about at its various desks during one of its frequent intervals of leisure.
She was a bright, curly-haired maiden, of a friendly disposition, so she singled out the literary editor for attack, no doubt fascinated by his aristocratic air, and his peculiarity of writing with his gloves on.
“Tell me a ’tory,” she demanded, shaking her curls at him, and gazing up with eyes of commanding brown.
“A story, little one?” said the literary editor, with a sweet smile, as he stroked her shining curls.
“Most assuredly. What shall it be?”
“Tell me Dack, de Diant Killer.”
“Jack, the Giant Killer? little sunbeam; with all my heart.”
The literary editor helped the little lady upon a stool and began: