HE was a little rat-like man with a sort of limpid fear in his face. He seemed at the same time awry and dried, a very sad rag that had been thoroughly wrung. And he was half asleep; and kept mumbling over and over, “I wonder... I wonder.” Now, I am not going to tell you where this happened, except so far as to say it was in a Press Club where newspaper men and dramatists and critics and the palaverers on perishable things came and gathered and went.
By HARRIS MERTON LYON17 min