"
But the "praeterea nihil" was something less than fair to Mr.
Spofford, with whom it was not strictly a case of "nothing further"
besides his "rocks". Ambition, the vice of great souls, burned
within Spofford's pigeon-breast. He longed to distinguish
himself in the line of endeavor of his friend Jones and was prone to
proffer suggestions, hints, and even advice, to the great
tribulation of the recipient.
Hence it was with misgiving that the Ad-Visor opened the door of his
sanctum to Mr. Spofford, on a harsh December noon. But the
misgivings were supplanted by pleased surprise when the caller laid
in his hand a clipping from a small country town paper, to this
effect:
RANSOM--Lost lad from Harwick not drowned
or harmed. Retained for ransom. Safe and
sound to parents for $50,000. Write,
Mortimer Morley, General Delivery, N. Y.
Post-Office.
"Thought that'd catch you," chuckled Mr. Spofford, in great
self-congratulation. "'Jones'll see into this,' I says to myself.
'If he don't, I'll explain.
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