As he
read the closing lines of the last manuscript the cuckoo clock struck
twelve, midnight.
"You are a mighty good reader, Quincy," said Leopold, "and barring
fifteen minutes for refreshments, you have been at it ten hours. Now you
want my opinion of those stories, and what's more, you want my advice as
to the best place to put them to secure their approval and early
publication. Now I am going to smoke a cigar quietly and think the whole
thing over, and at half past twelve I will give you my opinion in
writing. I am going into my library for half an hour to write down what
I have to say. You take a nap on the lounge there, and you will be
refreshed when I come back after having made mince meat of your poor,
beautiful, blind _protege_."
Leopold disappeared into the library, and Quincy stretching himself on
the lounge, rested, but did not sleep. Before he had realized that ten
minutes had passed, Leopold stood beside him with a letter sheet in his
hand, and said, "Now, Quincy, read this to me, and I will see if I have
got it down straight."
Quincy's hand trembled nervously as he seated himself in his old
position and turning the sheet so that the light would fall upon it, he
read the following:
Opinion of Leopold Ernst, Literary Critic, of certain manuscripts
submitted for examination by Quincy A.
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