oet, threw
in some views of him in his studio, and quoted some of his verse that
I'd fixed up. It got by. Virgie was so pleased he wanted to give a
banquet for me; but I got him to go in on a little winter wheat flier
instead. He didn't drop much. After that I'd slip in a paragraph
about him now and then, always calling him the sculptor poet. The tag
stuck. Other papers began to use it; until, first thing I knew, Virgie
was getting away with it. Honest, I just invented him. And now he
passes for the real thing!"

"Where you boobed, then, was in not filin' copyright papers," says I.
"But how does he make it pay?"

"He doesn't," says Whity. "Listen, Son, and I will divulge the hidden
mystery in the life of T. Virgil Bunn. Cheese factories! Half a dozen
or more of 'em, up Schoharie way. Left to him, you know, by Pa Bunn; a
coarse, rough person, I am told, who drank whey out of a five-gallon
can, but was cute enough to import Camembert labels and make his own
boxes. He passed on a dozen years ago; but left the cheese factories
working night shifts. Virgie draws his share quarterly. He tried a
year or two at some Rube college, and then went abroad to loiter.
While there he exposed himself to the sculptor's art; but it didn't
take very hard. However, Virgie came back and acquired the studio
habit. And you can't live for long in a studio, you know, without
getting the itch to see yourself in print. That's what brought Virgie
to me. And now! Well, now I have to go to Virgie."

"Ain't as chummy with him as you was, I take it?" says I.

Whity shrugs his shoulders disgusted. "The saphead!" says he. "Just
because we slipped up on a few stock deals he got cold feet. I haven't
seen him for a year. I wonder how he'll take it? But you mentioned a
Cousin Inez, didn't you?"

I gives Whity a hasty sketch of the piece, mentionin' no more names,
but suggestin' that Virgie stood to connect with an overgrown widow's
mite if there wa'n't any sudden interference.

"Ha!" says Whity, speakin' tragic through his teeth. "An idea! He's
put the spell on a rich widow, has he? Now if I could only manage to
queer this autumn leaf romance it would even up for the laceration of
pride that I see coming my way tonight. Describe the fair one."

"I could point her out if you could smuggle me in," I suggests.

"A cinch!" says he. "You're Barry of the City Press. Here, stick some
copy paper in your pocket. Take a few not