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Show til; (ii; T'j L'..'.cv. If y; i hn 1 tec i t. hc t la q-j?. .'.-a a mc.'.'i 1 ' : ! J f . r' - 'a r -r'. l Lfe yea rot Lve t -t tere much of the epectral a -out ttm. For he was a good lookir.a well made, dark, curty halreJ sort of a man; Uve'.y, cheery acl J3CUe3. ana, althougb a demon de-mon to worlc one who knew how to en-Joy en-Joy himself thoroughly, which enjoy, ment he always took In the company of the single creature In this world he loved, namely, fcls wife. "Only," Clara Weaver used to say to her husband, la reference to that work, "I can't understand why you should slave bo hard all the morotDg-and morotDg-and also at night, shut up In that study In the roof. Where does all the work go to when It la done? That's what I want to know." Where do the lega of mutton come from that we eatt Where do your pretty rowna come from that you pick up at the sales, and roy tobacco, and other things, eh? Five hundred a year Isn't made by living- In bed."' ''Why won't you let me m some of thoee articles you write for the ppere at three guineas a column t Why won't you point them out, to ma? I should be ' so proud to read them." Tm a failure, but you eeo the legs of mutton, and eat some of them, too, and you wear the gowns, and X take. you everywhere yeu want to go, and I love you. Isn't that enough?" "A failure! Youl When you can make five hunderd pounds a year! And your novel. Pomegranate Klsses'l That wasn't a failure, though most of the reviewers re-viewers said It was." "Never mind 'Pomegranate Klaee, " Charlie replied, though his face darkened dark-ened as he spoke. "I shan't try any more novels of that sort." "Ton should. It was a shame I mean what those old women, or young boys, said. I believe they were aU Jealous of you. Ivan. Melton wasn't, though." "Ivan Melton Is the popular novelist of the day," Charlie replied, with a queer kind of grin on bis half averted face. "He could afford to be magnanimous. magnani-mous. And he's a reviewer, and an editor, edi-tor, and a publisher's' reader, and a bit of a dramatist, too, and he has got heaps of Influential friends In the literary world. He wouldn't abuse a poor devil like me. I make Ave hundred pounds a year, and he makes thousands. He's a great man, Is Ivan," and again Charlie grinned. 'It looks to me as If you were trying to be 'a bit of a dramatise too,' Clara remarked, aa she bent over her husband's hus-band's shoulder and glanced at the manuscript man-uscript sheets beneath bis hand. "That looks more like conversations than a leading article on the German abuse of England, which you say Is ordered by a paper. "It Isn't a play, though." Charlie re-pHedv re-pHedv as he covered the words up with the blotting paper. Tra just Jotting down a few of the choice expressions our ip.ntonli. eHn1a miki about us." Ant ; cr s s' r t' ' U"9 conv t-t t-t i l -' : : i i r - i r t ..) : i a . rj ili-l. l e.ie, 1 b. c:ur u;.-er L.s heart, a:.i 1 :s I.; Jt :li it more cf a bluish tlr.,-5 tLan 'usual, vtea one day he swooned, and wten te c-me to hlrr.tif he found the local doctor t;anilr. ? over h'.m. And not only si&r.uir.g over him, but looking ; precious grave. "Palliation ef the hart," this gentleman gen-tleman eali, thou?h he tidn't say It very i encouragingly. "Keep Quiet In bed a day or two, and you'll soon be all right. I'll come in again toni?UC and see you." "Clara," Charlie said. "I fancy I am worse than the chap says, and that I'm golr.?" -"Oh, CiiarUe, don'fr-don'tl OhJ what shaU I dor' "Listen to me, darling, and don't get frightened. I want to see Ivan Melton at once. And I've got something to tell you. You know the old hair-covered trunk In my study that belonged to my aunt? Tee? All right. WeU. If I go, there's there's a fortune In that trunk for you, If you only know how to use it." "You are breaking my heart You go! You! The best, the sweetest husband on earth!" "God bless you for saying so. Never mind. Open the trunk if I go, look at the contents, and read the letter I have left on top, and and you will find an annuity for life." Poor Clara! As her husband spoke thus she thought-It must be his brain and not bis heart that was wrong; bat when hs was gone she found out that it was she who was wrong. , Before he "went," however, Ivan Mai-ton Mai-ton came to see blm, and quickly, too, in answer to the summons. Ivan Melton, frock coated, rose buttonholed, prosper oom and flamboyant. Ivan Meltsn; exclaiming ex-claiming "Mr dear old chap." "My dear old Charlie, " after having been shown Into the room. Then, after all dne Inquiries In-quiries bad been mads as to "dear old Charlie's" chances of futnr existence, accompanied by many "Dear dears," "Don't say that, old chap," "I can't believe be-lieve It," etc, the prosperous one said; "I don't know whatever I shall do without with-out you.f ' "You'll bo all right You'll find Plenty like me. Everyone has 'his master; lucky If he never meets him. You might help Clara If you feel like It. Eh?" "Hard times, old chap. Yes, even for me; as you say. Terrible expenses I'm put to. You can't keep right with the right people If yeu don't cocker them up pon my word you can't All the same, trust in me. By the way there's something some-thing due to you. Isn't there ?" "A hundred and thirty-three pounds." "PhewJ that's a lot! I've got a ten-pound ten-pound note In my pocket old chap, If that s any good to go on with." "I don't want a ten-pound note. '"All right dear boy. I wont forget the one, three, three. Goodby. God bless you. I'll come and see you again In a little while. Would you like me to send you a pineapple or some nice grapes, eh?" And off Ivan Melton went "Vagabond!" mutter Charlie, as the door shut after his friend "vagabond! Little enough wGl Clara ever see of that one, three, three,' as he calls it Never mind, there's the hair covered trunk. Oh, Lord, I hope she will be firm." Meantime, as he was musing tEua, Ivan Melton had got up into the phaeton, phae-ton, and was driving back ts town as fast as the grays could take him. As he did so he muttered to himself: "It's ail right. Not a line of manuscript In existence. ex-istence. I took care of that and typescript type-script tells no tales. Only, what the deuce Is to become of me If he pops off? I shall never find another one like him to take his place." Poor Charlie did "pop off In the middle mid-dle of a night without disturbing any i one; and when, six months later. Clara returned to town from her mother's, and began to dismantle the house, the recol- , lection of the hair-covered trunk occurred oc-curred to her. Upon which she went up to the study, and proceeded to open it When she had done so she started back as If an adder had sprung at her. For In front of, or below her, were six enormous heaps of tied-up manuscript In her late husband's handwriting, and each heap bore on its front page the title ti-tle of one of Ivan Melton's novels, from his first one, "Bid Me Goodby and Go," down to bis last "A Monarch's Bride." "My God!" Clara exclaimed. "What does it mean?" Then she picked out of the top heap a letter addressed to her. and opened it and read as follows: "Darling I have been Ivan Melton's ghost for years. I have written all his novels. He gave me 3 Ss per thousand; as we say, and got flflklOs and the kudos. I sent them to him chapter by chapter; he had them typed in the country under his own name, and then burnt my MS. But in spite of the labor, which turned every thousand words into two thousand, thou-sand, I have made a copy of them all In my own hand. Here they are. I would never have given him away even to you, my pet only It was he who set all his friends on to slate 'Pomegranate Kisses wherever they could- do so, or not to notice it at all; and he lent a hand himself at the game. He used to boast that he never let a rival In where he cculd help It. Two of his jackals, however, how-ever, with whom he had quarreled, wrote to me, and told all about It. Their letters are in the trunk below the last MS. I told you there was an annuity here If you manage things well. Goodby, Good-by, my own.. You will find ma waiting for you In the next world, "CHARLIE. Clara did try to manage things weU. but all the same she never got anything out of Ivan Melton. His next novel but one created a stir among his friends, if nowhere else, since even they, with the best will in the world; thought that bis powers must have left him suddenly; and even their stupendous efforts to write the book up failed before the hon-eet hon-eet attacks of those outside the "ring." The one after that was even worse. If possible, and they say that he now proclaims pro-claims novel writing to be a pursuit unworthy un-worthy of a roan of genius, and Is going go-ing Into finance. The King. |