From 18e39debdd6d34408dd515dc6316d9fc0775481b Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: vr8ce Date: Sat, 14 Mar 2020 19:02:33 -0500 Subject: [PATCH] [Editorial] some one -> someone --- src/epub/text/a-story-for-men.xhtml | 2 +- src/epub/text/binkleys-practical-school-of-journalism.xhtml | 2 +- src/epub/text/how-willie-saved-father.xhtml | 2 +- src/epub/text/no-story.xhtml | 2 +- src/epub/text/simmons-saturday-night.xhtml | 2 +- src/epub/text/the-higher-pragmatism.xhtml | 2 +- src/epub/text/the-pint-flask.xhtml | 2 +- src/epub/text/the-third-ingredient.xhtml | 2 +- 8 files changed, 8 insertions(+), 8 deletions(-) diff --git a/src/epub/text/a-story-for-men.xhtml b/src/epub/text/a-story-for-men.xhtml index 763a5ff..88ac654 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/a-story-for-men.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/a-story-for-men.xhtml @@ -27,7 +27,7 @@

Presently she saw a pretty red box on a table and curiosity for the moment overcame her fear. She opened the box and saw a lot of funny little sticks, with little round heads on them. She played with them on the floor, building little pigpens and fences and houses.

In changing her position her heel fell upon the little sticks and the next moment a big blaze flared up, caught her dress, and with a loud scream she ran to the locked door, wrapped in burning, stinging flames, in an agony of pain and horror.

-

Mrs. Jessamine awoke with a start and sprang wildly from the bed. The children were playing merrily on the floor, and she ran to them and caught them in her arms in thankfulness that the terrible dream was over. How she wished for some one to whom she could relate it and gain sympathy. Three blocks away lived Mrs. Flutter, her best friend and confidante. Not for a long time had Mrs. Jessamine had a dream that made such an impression upon her mind.

+

Mrs. Jessamine awoke with a start and sprang wildly from the bed. The children were playing merrily on the floor, and she ran to them and caught them in her arms in thankfulness that the terrible dream was over. How she wished for someone to whom she could relate it and gain sympathy. Three blocks away lived Mrs. Flutter, her best friend and confidante. Not for a long time had Mrs. Jessamine had a dream that made such an impression upon her mind.

She hastily put on her hat and cloak and said:

“Now, be good children till I come back.” Then she went out, locked the door and hurried away to Mrs. Flutter’s.

That is all.

diff --git a/src/epub/text/binkleys-practical-school-of-journalism.xhtml b/src/epub/text/binkleys-practical-school-of-journalism.xhtml index 44cf410..0701083 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/binkleys-practical-school-of-journalism.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/binkleys-practical-school-of-journalism.xhtml @@ -9,7 +9,7 @@

Binkley’s Practical School of Journalism

Last Tuesday afternoon a ragged and disreputable-looking man was noticed standing on a corner of Main Street. Several persons who had occasion to pass a second time along the street saw him still standing there on their return.

-

He seemed to be waiting for some one. Finally a young man came down the sidewalk, and the ragged man sprang upon him without saying a word and engaged him in fierce combat.

+

He seemed to be waiting for someone. Finally a young man came down the sidewalk, and the ragged man sprang upon him without saying a word and engaged him in fierce combat.

The young man defended himself as well as he could, but he had been severely handled before the bystanders could separate them. Of course no policeman was in sight, and the affair ended with as little noise and confusion as it began with. The young man slunk away with a black eye and a bruised cheek, and the ragged man with a look of intense satisfaction on his face turned off’ down a side street.

A Post Man who had viewed the occurrence was struck with something extraordinary in the man’s appearance, and, satisfied that there was more in the situation than appeared on the face of it, followed the aggressor. As he came up behind him, the disreputable-looking man said aloud to himself in a voice that expressed a deep and triumphant joy:

“That’s the last of the lot. After all, the pursuit of revenge gives more pleasure than its attainment. I have robbed my existence of its aim.”

diff --git a/src/epub/text/how-willie-saved-father.xhtml b/src/epub/text/how-willie-saved-father.xhtml index beb459a..d67b38b 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/how-willie-saved-father.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/how-willie-saved-father.xhtml @@ -32,7 +32,7 @@

“I’m not a girl,” he said. “My name is Willie Flint, and I’ve come to raise the rent.”

“Now, that’s kind of you, Willie,” said the young man called Bob, “to come and do that, for we couldn’t do it if we were to be electrocuted. Is that your own hair, Willie, or do you ride a bicycle?”

“Don’t worry the little boy,” said the other young gentleman, whom Bob addressed as Sam. “I’m sure that this is a nice little boy. I say, Willie, did you ever hear a gumdrop?”

-

“Don’t tease him,” said Bob severely. “He reminds me of some one⁠—excuse my tears⁠—those curls, those bloomers. Say, Willie, speak quick, my child⁠—two hundred and ten years ago, were you standing⁠—”

+

“Don’t tease him,” said Bob severely. “He reminds me of someone⁠—excuse my tears⁠—those curls, those bloomers. Say, Willie, speak quick, my child⁠—two hundred and ten years ago, were you standing⁠—”

“Oh, let him alone,” said Sam, frowning at the other young gentleman. “Willie, as a personal favor, would you mind weeping a while on the floor? I am overcome by ennui, and would be moved to joy.”

“My papa is very ill,” said Willie, bravely forcing back his tears, “and something must be done for him. Please, kind gentleman, let me raise the rent of this office so I can go back and tell him and make him better.”

“It’s old Flint’s kid,” said Bob. “Don’t he make your face wide? Say, Willie, how much do you want to raise the rent?”

diff --git a/src/epub/text/no-story.xhtml b/src/epub/text/no-story.xhtml index 45482de..edd771b 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/no-story.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/no-story.xhtml @@ -10,7 +10,7 @@

No Story

To avoid having this book hurled into corner of the room by the suspicious reader, I will assert in time that this is not a newspaper story. You will encounter no shirt-sleeved, omniscient city editor, no prodigy “cub” reporter just off the farm, no scoop, no story⁠—no anything.

But if you will concede me the setting of the first scene in the reporters’ room of the Morning Beacon, I will repay the favor by keeping strictly my promises set forth above.

-

I was doing space-work on the Beacon, hoping to be put on a salary. Some one had cleared with a rake or a shovel a small space for me at the end of a long table piled high with exchanges, Congressional Records, and old files. There I did my work. I wrote whatever the city whispered or roared or chuckled to me on my diligent wanderings about its streets. My income was not regular.

+

I was doing space-work on the Beacon, hoping to be put on a salary. Someone had cleared with a rake or a shovel a small space for me at the end of a long table piled high with exchanges, Congressional Records, and old files. There I did my work. I wrote whatever the city whispered or roared or chuckled to me on my diligent wanderings about its streets. My income was not regular.

One day Tripp came in and leaned on my table. Tripp was something in the mechanical department⁠—I think he had something to do with the pictures, for he smelled of photographers’ supplies, and his hands were always stained and cut up with acids. He was about twenty-five and looked forty. Half of his face was covered with short, curly red whiskers that looked like a doormat with the “welcome” left off. He was pale and unhealthy and miserable and fawning, and an assiduous borrower of sums ranging from twenty-five cents to a dollar. One dollar was his limit. He knew the extent of his credit as well as the Chemical National Bank knows the amount of H2O that collateral will show on analysis. When he sat on my table he held one hand with the other to keep both from shaking. Whiskey. He had a spurious air of lightness and bravado about him that deceived no one, but was useful in his borrowing because it was so pitifully and perceptibly assumed.

This day I had coaxed from the cashier five shining silver dollars as a grumbling advance on a story that the Sunday editor had reluctantly accepted. So if I was not feeling at peace with the world, at least an armistice had been declared; and I was beginning with ardor to write a description of the Brooklyn Bridge by moonlight.

“Well, Tripp,” said I, looking up at him rather impatiently, “how goes it?” He was looking today more miserable, more cringing and haggard and downtrodden than I had ever seen him. He was at that stage of misery where he drew your pity so fully that you longed to kick him.

diff --git a/src/epub/text/simmons-saturday-night.xhtml b/src/epub/text/simmons-saturday-night.xhtml index 21326f2..4f010f6 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/simmons-saturday-night.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/simmons-saturday-night.xhtml @@ -19,7 +19,7 @@

Then it was that a well-dressed gentleman wearing a handsome light Melton overcoat happened to pass, and his beautiful Malacca gold-headed cane accidentally touched the elbow of the verdant-looking young man.

“I beg a thousand pardons,” said the well-dressed gentleman.

“It’s all right, pardner,” said the young man with a friendly smile. “You ain’t done no damage. You can’t faze a Texas cow man with no plaything like that. Don’t mention it.”

-

The well-dressed man bowed, and went leisurely on his way. The young man stumbled on up Main Street to a corner, then turned in an aimless way to the right and walked another block. There he looked up and saw the illuminated clock in the market house tower, and drawing from his vest pocket an immense silver watch fully as large as a saucer, he wound it up with a key and set its hands with the clock in the tower. While he was doing this a well-dressed gentleman carrying a gold-headed Malacca cane slipped past and walked softly down the shady side of the street, stopped in a deep shadow and seemed to be waiting for some one.

+

The well-dressed man bowed, and went leisurely on his way. The young man stumbled on up Main Street to a corner, then turned in an aimless way to the right and walked another block. There he looked up and saw the illuminated clock in the market house tower, and drawing from his vest pocket an immense silver watch fully as large as a saucer, he wound it up with a key and set its hands with the clock in the tower. While he was doing this a well-dressed gentleman carrying a gold-headed Malacca cane slipped past and walked softly down the shady side of the street, stopped in a deep shadow and seemed to be waiting for someone.

About fifteen minutes later the young man entered a restaurant on Congress Street and took his seat timidly at a table. He drew another chair close to his side and deposited carefully therein his carpet bag. Five minutes later a well-dressed man with a gold-headed Malacca cane entered in a great hurry and after hanging up his silk hat, seated himself, almost out of breath, at the same table. Then, looking up, he recognized the young man whom he had seen gazing in the jeweler’s window, and smiling pleasantly remarked:

“Ah, we meet again, sir. I have just had a most exhausting race to catch a train. You see, I am the paymaster of the Southern Pacific Railway Company, and am on my way to pay off the hands down the road. I missed my train by about three minutes. It’s very awkward, too, as I have nearly two thousand dollars on my person, and I am entirely unacquainted in Houston.”

diff --git a/src/epub/text/the-higher-pragmatism.xhtml b/src/epub/text/the-higher-pragmatism.xhtml index f3d9058..9ae136f 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/the-higher-pragmatism.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/the-higher-pragmatism.xhtml @@ -92,7 +92,7 @@

Would I?

I rang the bell of the Telfair house violently. Some sort of a human came to the door and shooed me into the drawing-room.

“Oh, well,” said I to myself, looking at the ceiling, “any one can learn from any one. That was a pretty good philosophy of Mack’s, anyhow. He didn’t take advantage of his experience, but I get the benefit of it. If you want to get into the professional class, you’ve got to⁠—”

-

I stopped thinking then. Some one was coming down the stairs. My knees began to shake. I knew then how Mack had felt when a professional began to climb over the ropes.

+

I stopped thinking then. Someone was coming down the stairs. My knees began to shake. I knew then how Mack had felt when a professional began to climb over the ropes.

I looked around foolishly for a door or a window by which I might escape. If it had been any other girl approaching, I mightn’t have⁠—

But just then the door opened, and Bess, Mildred’s younger sister, came in. I’d never seen her look so much like a glorified angel. She walked straight tip to me, and⁠—and⁠—

I’d never noticed before what perfectly wonderful eyes and hair Elizabeth Telfair had.

diff --git a/src/epub/text/the-pint-flask.xhtml b/src/epub/text/the-pint-flask.xhtml index 04b2ec7..ee2f1f8 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/the-pint-flask.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/the-pint-flask.xhtml @@ -8,7 +8,7 @@

The Pint Flask

-

A prominent Houston colonel, who is also a leading church member, started for church last Sunday morning with his family, as was his custom. He was serene and solid-looking, and his black frock coat and light gray trousers fitted him snugly and stylishly. They passed along Main Street on the way to church, and the colonel happened to think of a letter on his desk that he wanted, so he told his family to wait at the door a moment while he stopped in his office to get it. He went in and got the letter, and, to his surprise, there was a disreputable-looking pint whisky flask with about an ounce of whisky left in it standing on his desk. The colonel abominates whisky and never touches a drop of anything strong. He supposed that some one, knowing this, had passed his desk, and set the flask there by way of a mild joke.

+

A prominent Houston colonel, who is also a leading church member, started for church last Sunday morning with his family, as was his custom. He was serene and solid-looking, and his black frock coat and light gray trousers fitted him snugly and stylishly. They passed along Main Street on the way to church, and the colonel happened to think of a letter on his desk that he wanted, so he told his family to wait at the door a moment while he stopped in his office to get it. He went in and got the letter, and, to his surprise, there was a disreputable-looking pint whisky flask with about an ounce of whisky left in it standing on his desk. The colonel abominates whisky and never touches a drop of anything strong. He supposed that someone, knowing this, had passed his desk, and set the flask there by way of a mild joke.

He looked about for a place to throw the bottle, but the back door was locked, and he tried unsuccessfully to raise the window that overlooked the alley. The colonel’s wife, wondering why he was so long in coming, opened the door and surprised him, so that scarcely thinking what he was doing he thrust the flask under his coat tail into his hip pocket.

“Why don’t you come on?” asked his wife. “Didn’t you find the letter?”

He couldn’t do anything but go with her. He should have produced the bottle right there, and explained the situation, but he neglected his opportunity. He went on down Main Street with his family, with the pint flask feeling as big as a keg in his pocket. He was afraid some of them would notice it bulging under his coat, so he lagged somewhat in the rear. When he entered his pew at church and sat down there was a sharp crack, and the odor of mean whisky began to work its way around the church. The colonel saw several people elevate their noses and look inquiringly around, and he turned as red as a beet. He heard a female voice in the pew behind him whisper loudly:

diff --git a/src/epub/text/the-third-ingredient.xhtml b/src/epub/text/the-third-ingredient.xhtml index 83a3ab7..bffa9f0 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/the-third-ingredient.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/the-third-ingredient.xhtml @@ -103,7 +103,7 @@

“Oh, dear!” said Cecilia, sitting up and patting her artistic hair. She cast a mournful glance at the ferryboat poster on the wall.

“Nit,” said Hetty. “It ain’t him. You’re up against real life now. I believe you said your hero friend had money and automobiles. This is a poor skeezicks that’s got nothing to eat but an onion. But he’s easy-spoken and not a freshy. I imagine he’s been a gentleman, he’s so low down now. And we need the onion. Shall I bring him in? I’ll guarantee his behavior.”

“Hetty, dear,” sighed Cecilia, “I’m so hungry. What difference does it make whether he’s a prince or a burglar? I don’t care. Bring him in if he’s got anything to eat with him.”

-

Hetty went back into the hall. The onion man was gone. Her heart missed a beat, and a gray look settled over her face except on her nose and cheekbones. And then the tides of life flowed in again, for she saw him leaning out of the front window at the other end of the hall. She hurried there. He was shouting to some one below. The noise of the street overpowered the sound of her footsteps. She looked down over his shoulder, saw whom he was speaking to, and heard his words. He pulled himself in from the windowsill and saw her standing over him.

+

Hetty went back into the hall. The onion man was gone. Her heart missed a beat, and a gray look settled over her face except on her nose and cheekbones. And then the tides of life flowed in again, for she saw him leaning out of the front window at the other end of the hall. She hurried there. He was shouting to someone below. The noise of the street overpowered the sound of her footsteps. She looked down over his shoulder, saw whom he was speaking to, and heard his words. He pulled himself in from the windowsill and saw her standing over him.

Hetty’s eyes bored into him like two steel gimlets.

“Don’t lie to me,” she said, calmly. “What were you going to do with that onion?”

The young man suppressed a cough and faced her resolutely. His manner was that of one who had been bearded sufficiently.