Another pause followed and slowly the smile vanished from the faces of both.
“Bob,” and the long Calmar straightened in his chair, “I’ve been an ass. It’s all apparent, too apparent, now. I’ve tried to compete with the entire world, and I’m too small. It’s enough for me to work against local competition.” He meditatively flicked the ash from his cigar with his little finger.
“I realize that a lot of my friends––women friends particularly––will say they always knew I had no determination, wouldn’t stay in the game until I won. They’re all alike in this one particular, Bob; all sticklers for the big lower jaw.
“But I don’t care. I’ve been shooting into a covey of publishers for twelve years and never have touched a feather. Perseverance is a good quality, but there is such a thing as insanity.” 67 He stared unconsciously at the portieres of the booth.
“Once and for all, I tell you I’m through,” he repeated.
“What are you going at?” queried Bob, sympathetically, a shade quizzically.
The long Calmar reached into his pocket with deliberation.
“Read that.” He tossed a letter across the tiny table.
Bob poised the epistle in his hand gingerly.
“South Dakota,” he commented, as he observed the postmark. “Humph, I can’t make out the town.”