“So is Mr. " "I never heard of anybody who could," declared McClintock. He will tell you confidentially that he simply hates the place. "Manuscripts! Why, this chap is a writer, or is trying to be. ” That conversation ended and he turned to her again. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. "There," cried Jackson, closing the book and rising, "that'll do. Take care of the old clothesman, and leave the rest to me. Was he, too, on the way to the beach? What a pity! All alone, and none to warn him of the abject wretchedness at the end of Drink.
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