"How ridiculous you are, Malcolm!" exclaimed his mother. "Mr. Pearson
isn't that kind of an author, I'm sure. But where does he live,
Caroline?"
"Somewhere on West 18th Street, I believe. He has rooms there, I think."
"Oh! Really? And how is this wonderful novel of his progressing? When
does he expect to favor us with it?"
"I don't know. But it is progressing very well at present. He has
written three chapters since last Wednesday. He was reading them to us
when you came."
"Indeed! Since last Wednesday? How interesting!"
Malcolm did not seem to find the topic interesting, for he smothered a
yawn. His mother changed the subject. On their way home, however, she
again referred to it.
"You must make it a point to see her every day," she declared. "No
matter what happens, you must do it."
"Oh, Lord!" groaned her son, "I can't. There's the deuce and all on
'Change just now, and the billiard tournament's begun at the Club. My
days and nights are full up. Once a week is all she should expect, I
think."
"No matter what you think or what she expects, you must do as I say."
"Why?"
"Because I don't like the looks of things."
"Oh, rubbish! You're always seeing bugaboos. Uncle Hayseed is pacified,
isn't he? I've paid the Moriarty crowd off.
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