The red dust which
still lay in the creases of his garment and in the curves of his soft
felt hat, and left a dusty circle like a precipitated halo around his
feet, proclaimed him, if not a countryman, a recent inland importation
by coach. "Busy?" he said, in a grave but pleasant voice. "I kin wait.
Don't mind ME. Go on."
The editor indicated a chair with his disengaged hand and plunged again
into his proof-slips. The stranger surveyed the scant furniture and
appointments of the office with a look of grave curiosity, and then,
taking a chair, fixed an earnest, penetrating gaze on the editor's
profile. The editor felt it, and, without looking up, said--
"Well, go on."
"But you're busy. I kin wait."
"I shall not be less busy this morning. I can listen."
"I want you to give me the name of a certain person who writes in your
magazine."
The editor's eye glanced at the second right-hand drawer of his desk.
It did not contain the names of his contributors, but what in the
traditions of his office was accepted as an equivalent,--a revolver.
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