Robert Barr

“ The author sat back in his chair and gazed across the table at his secretary. Finally, he said:
"My dear Scriver, you can't really mean what you say. You know that I hold that all classes of labor should have exactly the same compensation. The miner, the blacksmith, the preacher, the postal clerk, the author, the publisher, the printer—yes, the man who sweeps out the office, or who polishes boots, should each share alike, if this world were what it should be—yes, and what it will be. Why, Scriver, you surely couldn't have read my book——"
"Read it? ”

“ A wild spring storm lashed the landscape, and rattled the raindrops against the pane. Mr. Ringamy waited for some time and then opened the study door and looked in. The little room was empty. He rang the bell, and the trim servant-girl appeared.
"Has Mr. Scriver come in yet?"
"No, sir, he haven't."
"Perhaps the rain has kept him."
"Mr. Scriver said that when you come back, sir, there was a letter on the table as was for you."
"Ah, so there is. Thank you, that will do."
The author opened the letter and read as follows:
"My dear Mr. ”