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Newspaper Page Text
LOST AND FOUND
By Victor Redcliffe
It was his first ambitions venture
in literature and Adrian Moore had
begun the reading of his little screed
with fear and trembling. Then, as
he got into the soul of his subject, he
forgot self and was almost brilliant
in his delivery.
All his former trepidation returned,
however, as he came back to the
harsh realities with the last sentence
enunciated. It was a little skit of
pathos, romance and description, the
result of a two-weeks' vacation in
"the cider country" downstate, just
as antique and crude in the present
as half a century before.
He faced his critics now they
were five. The "chosen six" com
prised a club of newspaper writers
who met and ate and drank mod
erately once a week in the real
room of a Greek restaurant There,
when they got warmed up, more than
one of the group forgot stern, un
practical routine .stuff and for the
first time a poem, a scenario, a mag
azine effort would see the light.
"It's just a dash-off," observed
Moore almost apologetically as he
sat down, and blunt Jerry Gowan,
who wrote leaded editorials, in his
usual unsympathetic way made the
Clyde Winston, who was allowed
to act as critic of second-rate books,
simply yawned. There was Dan
"Great!" he declared, slapping
Moore on the shoulder in his inevi
table way. "Lengthen her out and
give her a spin with the magazines."
"You've acquired some style," ob
served Jack Whistler. "It's refresh
ing, and tastes fine local color, and
all that but more like a soda than
a good, bracing snifter."
All this was of no moment to
Moore. He glanced anxiously at
Rorke Vivian. He was the oldest or
the party. He had done London,
Paris, New York, in a journalistic
way, had written three books, spoke
little, and then to a purpose. He sat
now, his finely chiseled face half hid
den by his hand and said nothing!
This was where the whip scourged,
there lay the bitter sting for Moore!
One word or look of approbation
from Vivian "would have been more
to the aspiring young writer than all
the others might put in volumes.
"Guess last night's extra has used
me up," spoke Vivian at length, aris-
'It's Just a Dash-Off.
ing with a yawn. Then his lips set
close, as though all this were a mask
to conceal some unusual emotion. He
rather evided Moore, the latter
thought. When Vivian was gone the
group broke up. Moore was glad of it
His soul was bruised. He wished to
be alone, to think.
"It fell flat," he soliloquized as he
reached the outer air. "I won't try
He thrust the manuscript into an
inside coat pocket with a savage
punch of his fist Then he braced