quality without any regard to the pedigree of the author. Now, I’ll bet a quart of ink that this Southern parlor organ you’ve been running has never played a note that originated above Mason & Hamlin’s line. Am I right?”
“I have carefully and conscientiously rejected all contributions from that section of the country—if I understand your figurative language aright,” teplied the colonel.
“All right. Now, I’ll show you something.”
Thacker reached for his thick manila envelope and dumped a mass of typewritten manuscript on the editor’s desk.
“Here’s some truck,” said he, “that I paid cash for, and brought along with me.”
One by one he folded back the manuscripts and showed their first pages to the colonel.
“Here are four short stories by four of the highest priced authors in the United States—three of ’em living in New York, and one commuting. There’s a special article on Vienna-bred society by Tom Vampson. Here’s an Italian serial by Captain Jack—no—it’s the other Crawford. Here are three separate exposés of city governments by Sniffings, and here’s a dandy entitled ‘What Women Carry in Dress-Suit Cases’—a Chicago newspaper woman hired
