He cabled me yesterday, at my expense, to try and get
him a job on our paper. If the war hadn't come on he had a plan to
beat his way around the world. And he'd have done it, too. I never
saw a man who wouldn't help Charlie along, or lend him a dollar." He
glanced at the faces about him and winked at the Boston man. "They
all of them look guilty, don't they?" he said.
"Charlie Channing," murmured the baseball reporter, gently, as though
he were pronouncing the name of a girl. He raised his glass. "Here's
to Charlie Channing," he repeated. Norris set down his empty glass
and showed it to the Boston man.
"That's his only enemy," he said. "Write! Heavens, how that man can
write, and he'd almost rather do anything else. There isn't a paper
in New York that wasn't glad to get him, but they couldn't keep him a
week. It was no use talking to him. Talk! I've talked to him until
three o'clock in the morning. Why, it was I made him send his first
Chinatown story to the International Magazine, and they took it like
a flash and wrote him for more, but he blew in the check they sent
him and didn't even answer their letter. He said after he'd had the
fun of writing a story, he didn't care whether it was published in a
Sunday paper or in white vellum, or never published at all.
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