out onto the street with some misgivings, but it was invisible, thank the Powers.
And when I woke the next day the sliminess was gone.
I went to Henry Gade’s place and borrowed a pen and paper. I had told him what I’d heard from Iola about her trouble, but nothing else.
“Who are you writing to?” he asked over his pipe, watching me scratching laboriously away at the letter.
“I’m doin’ what anyone should do when he’s in trouble—consulting an expert,” I said, and kept on writing.
“ ‘Miss Beatrice Dix,
The Daily Mail,’ ”
he read aloud, and roared with laughter. “So you’ve got trouble along those lines, too, have you? Ha? Beatrice Dix—Advice to the Lovelorn!”
“You tell your little mouth to stop making those noises or it’ll get poked,” I growled. He went on reading what I had written:
Dear Miss Dix:
I got a problem about a girl I am very serious with. This girl has a fellow who likes her, but she don’t like him none at all. He keeps on bothering her and ordering her to keep away from other men, but he never comes to see her or gives her anything or takes her out and on top of that he keeps on doing things to any other man that is interested in her and especially to me because—
“Good heavens, Gus, couldn’t you put a full stop in there somewhere?”
—because I am at present her big moment. The things he does are not the kind of things you can get the law on him for. What I want to know is what right has this fellow to be sojealous when the girl has no use for him and what can we do to get rid of him
.
“Either you’re an extremely exacting student of literary styling,” said Henry, “or you actually are the kind of person who writes in to Beatrice Dix’s column. I’ve always wondered what one of those nitwits looked like,” he added thoughtfully, standing off and regarding me as if I were a museum piece. “Tell me—who’s the cutter-inner in your little romance?”
“A ghost.”
“A ghost? Iola’s jealous ghost? Gus, Gus, you improve by the hour. And do you really think you can exorcise him with the aid of a heart-throb column?”
“He don’t need no exercise.”
“Get out of here, Gus, you’re killing me.”
“I will before I do,” I said.
The following day Iola’s haunt created something new and different for me. But I couldn’t brave this one out. I stayed home all day after phoning the boss that I was very, very ill. Exactly what was done couldn’t be printed.
The answer to my letter came far sooner than I had hoped. I hadn’t asked for a personal reply, and so it was printed, with my letter, thus:
G.S.:
You are up against a very difficult problem, if we understand the situation correctly. We have run up against such cases before. The young man who is persecuting the two of you will continue to do so just as long as he finds the girl attractive to his peculiar type of mind. And what can you do about it?
You can ignore him completely
.
Or you can, together or singly, get the man to talk the whole thing out with you
.
Or you might try to find someone else who would interest him
.
But you must be patient. Please, for your own sakes, do not do anything rash
.
I read it over half a dozen times. I figured this Dix woman was a real expert at this racket, and she ought to know what to do. But how to go about it? “Ignore him completely.” How can you be married to a woman when you know you’re liable to turn slimy at a moment’s notice? “Appeal to his better nature—talk it out with him.” Catch him first. “Find someone else who would interest him.” Catch a lady ghost, huh? And persuade her to vamp him.
I took the paper over to Henry Gade. He’s better at thinking things out than I am.
He waved the paper aside as I came in. “I’ve seen it,” he said. “I was looking for it.”
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s a lovely piece of say-nothing, except that she hit the nail on the head when she said that the guy
And when I woke the next day the sliminess was gone.
I went to Henry Gade’s place and borrowed a pen and paper. I had told him what I’d heard from Iola about her trouble, but nothing else.
“Who are you writing to?” he asked over his pipe, watching me scratching laboriously away at the letter.
“I’m doin’ what anyone should do when he’s in trouble—consulting an expert,” I said, and kept on writing.
“ ‘Miss Beatrice Dix,
The Daily Mail,’ ”
he read aloud, and roared with laughter. “So you’ve got trouble along those lines, too, have you? Ha? Beatrice Dix—Advice to the Lovelorn!”
“You tell your little mouth to stop making those noises or it’ll get poked,” I growled. He went on reading what I had written:
Dear Miss Dix:
I got a problem about a girl I am very serious with. This girl has a fellow who likes her, but she don’t like him none at all. He keeps on bothering her and ordering her to keep away from other men, but he never comes to see her or gives her anything or takes her out and on top of that he keeps on doing things to any other man that is interested in her and especially to me because—
“Good heavens, Gus, couldn’t you put a full stop in there somewhere?”
—because I am at present her big moment. The things he does are not the kind of things you can get the law on him for. What I want to know is what right has this fellow to be sojealous when the girl has no use for him and what can we do to get rid of him
.
“Either you’re an extremely exacting student of literary styling,” said Henry, “or you actually are the kind of person who writes in to Beatrice Dix’s column. I’ve always wondered what one of those nitwits looked like,” he added thoughtfully, standing off and regarding me as if I were a museum piece. “Tell me—who’s the cutter-inner in your little romance?”
“A ghost.”
“A ghost? Iola’s jealous ghost? Gus, Gus, you improve by the hour. And do you really think you can exorcise him with the aid of a heart-throb column?”
“He don’t need no exercise.”
“Get out of here, Gus, you’re killing me.”
“I will before I do,” I said.
The following day Iola’s haunt created something new and different for me. But I couldn’t brave this one out. I stayed home all day after phoning the boss that I was very, very ill. Exactly what was done couldn’t be printed.
The answer to my letter came far sooner than I had hoped. I hadn’t asked for a personal reply, and so it was printed, with my letter, thus:
G.S.:
You are up against a very difficult problem, if we understand the situation correctly. We have run up against such cases before. The young man who is persecuting the two of you will continue to do so just as long as he finds the girl attractive to his peculiar type of mind. And what can you do about it?
You can ignore him completely
.
Or you can, together or singly, get the man to talk the whole thing out with you
.
Or you might try to find someone else who would interest him
.
But you must be patient. Please, for your own sakes, do not do anything rash
.
I read it over half a dozen times. I figured this Dix woman was a real expert at this racket, and she ought to know what to do. But how to go about it? “Ignore him completely.” How can you be married to a woman when you know you’re liable to turn slimy at a moment’s notice? “Appeal to his better nature—talk it out with him.” Catch him first. “Find someone else who would interest him.” Catch a lady ghost, huh? And persuade her to vamp him.
I took the paper over to Henry Gade. He’s better at thinking things out than I am.
He waved the paper aside as I came in. “I’ve seen it,” he said. “I was looking for it.”
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s a lovely piece of say-nothing, except that she hit the nail on the head when she said that the guy
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