Well, the community has broken up, the shops are in ruins, and there is nobody there now except that bankrupt poet, Guilford. I bought the mortgage for you, foreseeing a slump in that sort of art, and I expect to begin foreclosure proceedings and buy in the tract, which, as you will recollect, includes some fine game cover and the Ashton stream, where you wanted to establish a hatchery. This is a God-forsaken spot. I’m on my way to the poet’s now. Shall I begin foreclosure proceedings and fire him? Wire me what to do.
Yours,
Briggs.
Wayne received this letter two days later. Preoccupied as he was in fitting out his yacht for commission, he wired briefly, “Fire poet,” and dismissed the matter from his mind.
The next day, grappling with the problem of Japanese stewards and the decadence of all sailormen, he received a telegram from Briggs:
“Can’t you manage to come up here?”
Irritated, he telegraphed back:
“Impossible. Why don’t you arrange to
fire poet?” And Briggs replied: “Can’t fire poet. There are extenuating circumstances.”
“Did you say exterminating or extenuating?” wired Wayne. “I said extenuating,” replied Briggs.