“I don’t think you need worry about that,” returned the Bonnie Lassie loftily.
Nor was there any occasion for worry. Two days later there occurred an irruption of dismaying young men with casual squares of paper in their pockets, upon which they scratched brief notes. They were, I was subsequently given to understand, the pick and flower of the city’s reportorial genius. (I could imagine the ghost of Inky Mike with his important notebook and high-poised pencil, regarding with wonder and disdain their quiet and unimpressive methods.) A freshly painted sign across the front of Plooie’s basement, was the magnet that drew them:
Emile Garin & Wife
Umbrella Mender & Porch Cleanser
to
His Majesty
The King of the Belgians
(By Royal Warranty)
No; Plooie and Annie Oombrella need no help from the humble now. Their well-deserved fortune is made.
TRIUMPH
The months go by—bleak March and May-day heat—
Harvest is over—winter well-nigh done—
And still I say, “To-morrow we shall meet.”
MAY PROBYN
The Little Red Doctor sat on the far end of my bench. Snow fringed the bristling curve of his mustache. He shivered.
“Dominie,” said he, “it’s a wild day.”