It was by the size, shape, and blue cover that I recognized that manuscript
two days later upon the desk of the editor of the Sunday supplementary
pages of the paper, as I was submitting to that personage a "special" I had
written upon the fertile theme, "Producing a Burlesque."
"May I ask what that stuff is wrapped in blue?"
"Certainly. A crank in the last stages of alcoholism and mental depression
brought it in yesterday. It's an idiotic jumble about Beautiful Women of
History, part in prose and part in doggerel."
"Of course you'll reject it?"
"Naturally. I'll ease his mind by telling him the subject lacks
contemporaneousness. Have a cigarette? By the way, have you any special
interest in the rubbish?"
"No; I only think I've seen it before somewhere. What's the writer's name
and address?"
"It's to be called for. He didn't leave any address. From that fact and his
appearance, I infer that he doesn't have any permanent abode. Here's his
name,--Ernest Ruddle. Not half as much individuality in the name as in the
man. I remember him because he had a straw hat on."
The burlesque production which had served as material for my Sunday article
saw the light for the first time on the following Monday night.
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