Earl Derr Biggers

“ From a nearby bench was wafted the snore of one who had wearied of sneering back. A late car clanged somewhere on the other side of the park, and through the leafy trees the stars shone down.
“Voila!” cried the little man, leaping to his feet.
From out a dark side street, to the east, moved a procession strange even in New York. Out of the dim gray cañon crept two lumbering elephants prodded on by a shabby black man of enormous stature. Sleepily the three moved over toward the shelter of the park. ”

“ Young Merrick regarded him with wide eyes.
“The parallel in our cases,” he cried, “is strikingly similar. They want me again on the newspaper, but I must come back to a life of jests minus my tragedies—as an evidence of faith. It is argued that they interfere with good stories—as Mark and Miranda, Monsieur, might interfere with good rolls. The city-editor is a man devoid of soul. ”

“ Every weak-minded clerk writes plays. Each publication of the newest dramatist's income sets a new batch of janitors to dreaming scenarios.' An unreasonable man, Monsieur.”
“Like my brother,” sympathized the little one. “He scorns my elephants. But sacre bleu—even he would pity Mark and Miranda to-night—if he could see them—homeless, as I am—wandering—”
“Monsieur—you do not tell me—”
“At midnight,” moaned Professor Perrin, “they were driven from the stable where I have kept them by the burly brute in charge. What was it that he said? Oui—pay or get out! He, too, has no real soul for Art. ”

“ Jimmy Merrick hugged tightly the manuscripts of two great, unacted tragedies.
“Our sorrow is the same,” he said. “But for that very degeneracy of taste, a brass bed and not an iron bench would receive me to-night. The efforts of schoolboys are flaunted in electric letters, while men of parts stand in the bread line. ”

“ Only Wednesday came a letter from him: 'Return,' it pleaded. 'The business is most prosperous. A part is yours. Say good-by to this life of wandering, and return.'”
Still another sigh—almost a groan—from the little man. ”

“ And then upon the two on the bench fell the usual fever of the artist. You who have friends writing plays—and who has not?—know it well. Its warning symptom is “Listen!”
“Monsieur,” spoke the little man, “has never seen Mark and Miranda perform. With trunks locked they waltz like humans—to the tune of the Merry Widow. See! Ta-te-ta-tum, ta-te-ta—”
But Merrick had already stripped the leather covers from his tragedies, and was hotly turning the thin pages. ”