Evening Republican, Volume 20, Number 164, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 July 1916 — The Testimonials [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The Testimonials

By GEORGE MUNSON

(Copyright. 1916, by W. G. Chapman.) The editor of the Slap-Dash Monthly ■was looking thoughtfully over a pile of typewritten letters upon his desk. He noticed a strange similarity about them. All united in praising the recent serial story by Oliver Hughes, the brilliant young writer whom he had "found.” One was from a woman in Michigan, and ran, in part, as follows: “Won’t you please give us more stories by Oliver Hughes? They are the best I have seen in years. My husband and I, who used to live so affectionately together, now quarrel every week as to which shall get the SlapDash Monthly first. I consider that Mr. Hughes’ stories are an inspiration to everybody.” Another letter was from a fellow In Ohio. “Say, bo’,” it began breezily, “you hand out them Oliver Hughes stories regular, or I’ll can your old mag. Them’s the kind of stuff we wants. Red blood and plenty of it.” A third letter, from a school teacher in Massachusetts, went thus: “Although my lot is cast in the quiet paths of life, I am susceptible to the call qf the great adventurous world, and I cannot resist the temptation to let you know what splendid stories Mr. Hughes’ are.” Another was from a prisoner in a state penitentiary. “Dear editor,” it ran, "us poor guys ■who are shut up from sun and air in a noisome dungeon don’t often get a

chance to read your magazine, but I ■write to say Oliver Hughes’ stories is an inspiration to me to lead a new life ■when I get free. Give us some more and plenty of them.” "Strange,” muttered the editor, and turned to his assistant “Did you see anything remarkable in Oliver Hughes’ story?” he asked. “I didn’t want you to take it,” said the assistant. “You agreed with me it wasn’t worth much.? „“I agreed with you,” replied the edl-' tor, “but I told you it was clear that Mr, Hughes was a young man of promise, and that it would be well to encourage him in view of getting his future work. What do you think of this hunch?” And he tossed the letters over the table to Jennings, who read them thoughtfully. “Sad, very sad,” said Jennings, "to think that our promising young man should be a faker.” “Yes. Mr. Hughes will have to be canned,” said the editor. "I’d stand for it in some people, but not in a

young man we’ve taken up and tried to help. Here’s his second story. It’s first class, but it’s going back now.” The same evening, as Miss Margery Gibson was seated in the parlor, after having dismissed her father and mother to the dining room, young Mr. Hughes called upon her with a dejected mien and a large, flat paper package, with a number of stamps on it, under his arm. "It’s come back, Margery,” he said, flinging it down on the table. “Our future is blasted.” Margery leaped for the package. ■“Not your second story, Oliver?” she ■" cried. “Not ‘lt’s Blood That Tells*?” “Yes, here it. is,” said Oliver. “And here’s Mr. Alvis’ letter.” “He wouldn’t take ‘lt’s Blood That Tells?”’ cried Margery in consternation. “Why, that was a splendid story, Oliver! The mean old thing!” She opened the letter and read: “Dear Mr. Hughes. “We have carefully considered Tt’s Blood That Tells,’ and regret that we cannot see our way to publish it. Your style of working is, unfortunately, one that does not commend itself to'us. Your truly.” “What does he mean by my style of working?” Shouted Oliver indignantly. “He told me at our last interview that I could consider my next serial as good as accepted, and this is ten, times better than the last. . And I bought you that solitaire on the strength of it, and I’m going to sue him for a hundred dollars anyway. And now we can’t get married.”

Margery put her arms about his neck. “Give me the manuscript, dear,” she said. “I’ll go and see Mr. Alvis.” "You, Margery? How can I let yot face that fiend in human form? No, I’ll go. I’ll go with a horsewhip and tell him just what I think of it all, and of him, too.” “You’d better let me try, Oliver,” an* swered Margaret gently. "You know, you aren’t such a diplomatist as I am.” It was on the following morning that the editor of the Slap-Dash Monthly received a visit from a charming young unknown lady in a pretty new suit, who insisted on an immediate interview with him. “I had to come to see you,” she said gushingly, as she sat down beside his desk. “I wanted to say that I think Mr. Oliver Hughes’ story was just splendid. When are you going to print another by him?” “I—l don’t know," said Mr. Alvis feebly, staring at the apparition beside him, while his assistant, across the table, ostentatiously knocked the ashes out of his pipe. “I am sure all his readers must rave over him,” said Miss Gibson. “It must mean a lot to your magazine to be able to print stories like that. When is his next coming out? Promise me to telephone him at once for another." “Is this Mr. —Mr. Hughes known to you?” asked the editor cautiously. “I have never set eyes on him in my life,” replied Margery. "I am not fit to associate with the great minds of the era. lam only a stenographer, but I think I have a taste for literature. 0 yes, laugh if you like, but I say Mr. Hughes is a great, great man.” “Miss —er —Gibson,” said the editor with inspiration, "would you be willing to write us a testimonial to that effect, to print with Mr. Hughes’ next story, if we should see fit?”

"Certainly,” answered Miss Gibson. “You can use this typewriter, you know,” the editor continued. Five minutes later Miss Gibson handed him the testimonial. It was certainly one that ought to have turned the paper pink, if it didn’t. “And you use another story by Mr. Hughes at once?” asked Margery. “Ye —yes,” said Mr. Alvis, studying the testimonial hard. “And you’ll telephone him?” “I will,” said Mr. Alvis, conducting her to the door. When Margery was gone, radiant, he came back and placed the testimonial before Mr. Jennings. "Same letter j without a tall,” said Jennings. “Same that the schoolmarm made, and the convict and the fellow from Ohio, who also- used the typewriter. I guess their little fingers were too short to reach it on this old style Podger machine. Men always use four fingers in typewriting, you know.” “Yes, I know,” said Alvis. “Suppose she did it all herself?” “I guess so.” "That let's him out, then. But what about the girl. It’s fierce, that swindle.” “Ah, well, wait .till you’re a married man, Jennings,” answered the editor loftily. “Besides, I guess it isn’t much worse than our writing our own testimonials in this office."

“I-I Don’t Know,” Said Mr. Alvis Feebly.