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 heart to this man--if, in fact, his screed be not arrant bosh--then will I hie me to London for good and all, and write political leaders all the days of my life."

In an hour's time the Journalist came sauntering out to me, and announced that his letter was written.

"Have you sealed it up?"

"Well, no. I thought you might give me an additional hint or two; and maybe I might look it over again and add a few lines before turning in."

"Do you mind my seeing it?"

"Not the least in the world, if you care to. I didn't think, though, that it could possibly interest you, who know already every mortal thing that is to be known about the place."

"You're mistaken. I may know all about this place when I die, but not before. Let's hear what you have to say."

We went indoors, and he read it over to me.

It was a surprisingly brilliant piece of description; and accurate, too. He had not called it "a little fishing-town," for instance, as so many visitors have done in my hearing, though hardly a fishing-boat puts out fro