"Why on earth do you
want--"
But the young artist had dashed forth again, hot upon his quest. A few
houses down the street, he made another spectacular entrance with the
same cry;--at another and still another. One friend frankly confessed
he had never heard of the book, another expressed indignation that he
should be suspected of owning a copy. But not until the temperamental,
brown-eyed artist had visited several acquaintances was he able to
get what he wanted.
When the long-sought volume was in his grasp, he heaved a sigh of
something more emphatic than relief.
"How much did you pay for this thing?" he demanded.
"I didn't. I borrowed it."
"Oh-- See here. Can't you say you lost it?"
"I suppose so, if you want it as much as all that."
The young artist sat down and began seriously to tear the book to
pieces.
"Well, for the love of Mike!" cried the friend. "Do you hate it like
that?"
"I never read more than three pages of it," said the artist, steadily
tearing, "but a slumming creature, a girl from uptown came into the
'Pirate's Den' yesterday where I was sitting, and, after staring at me
fascinatedly for five minutes, leaned over to me and murmured
breathlessly:
"'Oh, tell me, _aren't you a Truffler_?' I couldn't wring her neck,
and so--"
Another handful of torn pages fluttered from his hand.
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