Newspaper Page Text
American
Sunday Monthly Magazine Section
It was the following morning that Mr. Norton, the news
paper reporter, invited Emmy and her mother to inspect
his studio. He came in to breakfast very late, and seemed
strangely nervous and out of sorts. Emmy also was break,
fasting late; with the exception of her mother, they had
the dining-room to themselves. Air. Norton swallowed two
huge cups of coffee, played with an egg, and crumbled a
piece of toast to shreds without eating a morsel. Then he
jerked out his cigarette-case, rose impatiently and sug
gested that they come and see his rooms.
Mrs. Moran said nothing, but glanced at Emmy. Emmy
said “Yes,” and followed Mr. Norton up the stairs. In a
moment he was ushering them into his studio.
The place looked as though it had never been put in
order since the beginning of time. The walls were literally
plastered with lithographs, posters, and sketches in black
and white and color, many of them originals. The floor,
except the central portion of it, was heaped with similar
sketches, books, newspapers, magazines and clothes in a
confused and impossibly inextricable mass. Photographs
of every conceivable subject, from aeroplane ascensions to
musical comedy choruses, were stacked about, on the
marble mantel, on the table, along the walls. A typewriter
stood near the bed, on a chair. Beside it, on the floor,
lay a pile of manuscript. A broken revolver, souvenir of
a sensational mur
der case, hung from
the chandelier along
with a pink satin
slipper and a mum
mified Indian head
from New Mexico,
its long, black hair
serving as a means
of suspension. On
the mantel stood a
nearly empty
whisky bottle and
several empty beer
bottles, which spoke
eloquently to Em
my of the noisy
party which had
disturbed her slum
bers in the small
hours of the morn
ing. Norton lit his
cigarette and began
to inhale it in huge
puffs.
The girl gazed about
the room with interest.
Here, she felt, was the be
ginning of all things for her.
It was an intuition she could not
explain, even to herself. Her
mother looked mild disapproval.
The place outraged her inherent
sense of order.
Mr. Norton was a gay little fellow,
somewhat below medium height, with
much brown, wavy hair which seemed in
imminent danger of falling into his bright,
roving eyes. His mouth was large and humor
ous, his manner quick and nervous. He bounced
about the room like a flea, seemingly unable
to remain quiet for a moment. As he carefully ex
plained to Mrs. Moran, he had “the jumps,” which,
he informed her, resulted from too many highballs
the night before. “It’s a choice of two evils,” he
laughed, gaily. “If I don’t drink I feel like a fool
if I do, I act like one.” He hopped over to the table
and began to show Emmy the pictures.
The girl felt herself in a new world. She, who had
so often spent a whole morning absorbed in the con
tents of some New York Sunday paper, now found
herself in the sanctum, so to speak, of one of those
enviable beings who created them. “What do you
write mostly, Air. Norton? she asked, in tones of
deep respect.
“I do all the big murder trials. Aou may have
read the stories of the Leland case in the Courier
this week. I wrote them. Say, that Leland girl is a
wonder. I’ve got to know her pretty well this past
month and I must say she’s got any woman I e\ er
saw beat to a pulp for nerve.”
Through Emmy's mind flashed the tale of a }oung
girl accused of murdering her elderly husband of a
year to get possession of his large property. I he
sensational newspapers had been filled with her pic-
*****
tures in every conceivable attitude, with stories of
her past, her beauty, her youth, her talents, her likes
and dislikes, the cost of her hats, the kind of flowers
she preferred, her pet poodle, her clothes, and the
way she wore her hair.
“ She must be a horrid creature,” Emmy observed,
with the innate jealousy of one beautiful woman for
another.
“Not on your life! She’s a wonder. Alost beau
tiful eyes I've ever seen. Coarse work, though, giv
ing the old guy rat poison. Very coarse.” He took
up a portrait of the woman from the table and
handed it to Emmy. “Just look at her eyes. Aren’t
they wonderful?”
Emmy handed the picture back after examining
it carefully, without comment. As Norton replaced
“You’re solid,” he
said, appreciatively,
“right weight and
age, and a bear for
looks”
it on the table an
other photograph
fell to the floor.
The girl caught it
as it fell. It repre
sented a young man of perhaps thirty-two years of
age, with a strong, earnest face, handsome features
and a whimsical smile. She glanced at Air. Norton,
questioningly, as she returned the picture to him.
“Oh, that’s Chanler,” he said, glancing down at
it. “Grant Chanler. Short-story writer—novelist
—maybe you know his stuff?”
“No,” Emmy replied. “I don’t remember ever
having read any of it.”
“He writes quite a lot—for the Universal and the
Post, mostly. Published ‘The Polygamist’ last
year—strong novel, too—but didn’t sell. Too
strong, I guess. Great friend of mine. I’ll intro
duce him to you sometime.”
“Thank you. I’d like to meet him.”
“How long do you expect to be in New York?”
Norton inquired as he dumped the contents of two
chairs on the floor to provide his guests with seats.
He himself sat on the edge of the table, smoking his
cigarette as though life itself depended upon it.
(Continued on page 12)