John D. Swain

Biographical details

John D. Swain Deadwood (1920)

For the first time Elmer found his ideal realized. He lay in a feather bed, ate prodigiously, outraged the maidenly Pritchett noses with the reek of his old cuddy pipe, read a little, slept much. Fat returned to his bones. Outside, the snow lay deep on field and road. Inside, the wood fire crackled soothingly—every room in the house had its fireplace—and there was no tyrannical boss to set him to shingling roofs, painting barns, mending harness, digging wells, or setting dull saw blades.
Source: Wikisource

John D. Swain ../../../ (1923)

Myriads spend all their lives in London, and die knowing nothing about it. Sir Walter Besant devoted twenty years to the collecting of data for his history of the city, and confessed that he had only a smattering of his subject. Men learn some one of its hundred phases passing well; Scotland Yard agents, buyers of old pewter or blackletter books, tea importers, hotel keepers, solicitors, clubmen; but outside of their own little pool broods the eternal fog, hiding the real London in its sticky, yellow embrace.
Source: Wikisource

John D. Swain Deadwood (1920)

Letty's tears had dried. A decided flush made Miss Hetty's thin face almost pretty. She was the first to speak.
“Do you really mean he is to be—we are to—that is—”
“He's dead!” Dr. Knapp barked. “You know how to act. You've been in enough houses of mourning. Just think of Elmer—and treat him—as if he was in the Great Beyond—wherever that is! If he is obstinate, remember nothing in the world will do him so much good as to fast for a few days.
Source: Wikisource

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