At his heels, perhaps, another author, equally successful, maybe, but almost intolerable because of certain marked eccentricities of life and clothing. He is a negro, small, slangy, strong in his cups, but able to write a good song, occasionally a truly pathetic ballad.
“Say, where’s that gem o’ mine?”
“What?”
“That effusion.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That audience-killer—that there thing that’s goin’ to sweep the country like wildfire—that there song.”
Much laughter and apology.
“It will be here Friday, Gussie.”
“Thought it was to be here last Monday?”
“So it was, but the printers didn’t get it done. You know how those things are, Gussie.”