I thought he was a rescuing angel, and he's turning out bad. I'll
swear it looks like they'd been--well, I won't say that yet. But he hasn't
printed that McCune business I told you of, and he's had two days. There
is less than a week before the convention, and--" He broke off, seeing the
yellow envelope in Meredith's hand. "Is that a telegram for me?" His
companion gave it to him. He tore it open and read the contents. They were
brief and unhappy.
"Can't you do something? Can't you come down? It begins to look the other
way. "K. H."
"It's from Halloway," said John. "I have got to go. What did that doctor
say?"
"He said two weeks at the earliest, or you'll run into typhoid and
complications from your hurts, and even pleasanter things than that. I've
got you here, and here you stay; so lie back and get easy, boy."
"Then give me that pad and pencil." He rapidly dashed off a note to H.
Fisbee:
"_September 5th_.
"H. FISBEE,
"Editor 'Carlow Herald.'
"_Dear Sir_: You have not acknowledged my letter of the 2d September by
a note (which should have reached me the following morning), or by the
alteration in the tenor of my columns which I requested, or by the
publication of the McCune papers which I directed. In this I hold you
grossly at fault. If you have a conscientious reason for refusing to carry
out my request it should have been communicated to me at once, as should
the fact--if such be the case--that you are a personal (or impersonal, if
you like) friend of Mr.
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