Winter 1944 • Vol. VI No. 1 FictionJanuary 1, 1944 |

Old James

Old James would sit at his desk in the twilight. He would wear his hat, but that was no sign he noticed the hour, that the sun had already gone down and there was only twilight, and far beneath him, on the Circle, the first lamps of the city he knew so well, twinkling like stars. He would be oblivious to the misty shaft of the Sailors and Soldiers Monument, too, and the stone pioneer woman blotted out, with the dogs and children crouching at her feet, and the shot gun she pointed toward some unseen enemy. Miss Greenwood, tired but efficient, would sit at his ponderous elbow, waiting for the flow of his inspiration. Then she would take a circuitous dictation in the semi-darkness, and her mind half-inclined toward problems of her own, which Old James would never guess, as she had learned the art of self-effacement—she was, indeed, the perfect secretary. He could not have told any one the color of her eyes or her hair, young as she was and not unattractive, but she enjoyed his ig

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