Lots of things have happened since you left, good, bad, and
indifferent. Flick has disappeared. Where the deuce he’s landed
is beyond me. He’s been gone two weeks and never sent a word. He
started on a spree after selling the masterpiece to Wimpheimer
& Goldfinch, for fifteen hundred dollars down and a royalty of
five hundred a year. This must have been too much for him, for he
started in to celebrate. Don’t blame him, do you? It almost made
me take up drinking. As far as I can make out from what they tell
me, the firm put one of their best little drinkers up against
Flick, a fellow called Steinweld--quite a decent old sport, too.
According to him, he started Flick at lunch, kept with him through
the afternoon and evening, and ran him into a couple of their
traveling men to take up the job. Flick not only cleaned up the
contract, but matched the crowd for all their spare change and
then kept on matching until he’d won about six trunks of spring
styles which were waiting over in the depot to go out the next
day. More than that, he ran them into some benefit ball up in
Terrace Garden. You know Flick. The dance, they’re not sure it
was at the garden, either, broke up with a free fight, and when
they woke up the next day, they were enjoying the hospitality
of the city. The last they remember of Flick he was leading the
grand march with the winner of some popularity contest. They
weren’t sure just where this was--they said they’d been so many
places! However, Goldfinch was a sport, stuck by the bargain,
said they’d been caught at their own game. But what do you think
happened to Flick! The only clue I have had, was the arrival of
a strange-looking pup, which Sassafras says is a coon-dog, which
came here in a box, half starved and howling like mischief. Box
was addressed to Flick from some point on a southern railroad
line. Sounds as though he were still alive, doesn’t it?
When are you coming back? It’s awfully glum up here, you can
imagine, with everyone away. I’ve been working hard, all summer,
drawing like mad--think you’ll say I’m getting somewhere. As far
as news goes, there are some queer turns. Old Pomello died some
three months after the marriage, over in Italy--pneumonia, I
believe. Belle Shaler had a note from Myrtle. Queer, isn’t it?
Wonder what’ll become of her now. She inherits what the old fellow
had, I suppose. The news excited everyone, of course. You see
Madame Probasco, the time she had that séance, made some prophecy
that fitted in with what happened. Millie Brewster is back after a
visit home. Have an idea O’Leary cleared out on her account. “The
baron” hasn’t been any too well, looks shaky, and then something
happened that cut him up terribly. Hit me, too, for a while but
now I’ve gotten hold again. Pansy went off with that old scoundrel
Drinkwater. Seems they’d been seeing each other all along, and
he must have got some hold over her, hypnotized her. Belle was
as surprised as any of us and mad clean through and through. We
don’t know just what happened--hope they’re married. That’s about
all, but, Lord, it’s lonely without the crowd! Have you done great
things? I’m crazy to see what you’re bringing back. My best to the
missis.