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Hannah Stuart
Mason of Bar X Ranch
Mason of Bar X Ranch
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Excerpt:
Jack Mason, a young man of twenty-one years, was intently watching a billiard game in progress at a fashionable club in New York City. It was a hot sultry day in June and he was wondering how people could enjoy knocking a bunch of balls around a table and getting all heated up. He had about decided to take a run in his motor when a messenger boy handed him a message. It was from his father bidding him to come at once to his office. His father was president of a bank in New York and independently rich. Mason thrust the message in his pocket, musing as he did so.
“I’m in for a call from Dad, he’s probably read about the scrape the bunch and I got into last week.”
Calling one of the club members aside he demanded: “Say, Smithy, how did the story of my automobile accident leak out in the papers?”
“Don’t know, Jack,” his friend replied; “you know as much about that as I do.”
“Thought I had that automobile affair hushed up,” grumbled Mason. “What gets me,” he continued, “is how my part in the club boxing match got in the papers. I just received a message from the old man and expect he has heard all about it.”
“This won’t be the first time you have been bawled out by the old man,” replied Smithy with a broad grin.
“No, but I expect something serious this time,” declared Mason gravely. “Damn those meddlesome reporters!” he burst out savagely. “You know, Smithy, I have been in worse scrapes before, but always managed to patch them up some way. Now, this story gets in the papers, and that prize fight—well, I suppose the quicker I get this matter settled with Dad, the sooner I will know my fate.” He finished, starting for his car.
Jack Mason, a young man of twenty-one years, was intently watching a billiard game in progress at a fashionable club in New York City. It was a hot sultry day in June and he was wondering how people could enjoy knocking a bunch of balls around a table and getting all heated up. He had about decided to take a run in his motor when a messenger boy handed him a message. It was from his father bidding him to come at once to his office. His father was president of a bank in New York and independently rich. Mason thrust the message in his pocket, musing as he did so.
“I’m in for a call from Dad, he’s probably read about the scrape the bunch and I got into last week.”
Calling one of the club members aside he demanded: “Say, Smithy, how did the story of my automobile accident leak out in the papers?”
“Don’t know, Jack,” his friend replied; “you know as much about that as I do.”
“Thought I had that automobile affair hushed up,” grumbled Mason. “What gets me,” he continued, “is how my part in the club boxing match got in the papers. I just received a message from the old man and expect he has heard all about it.”
“This won’t be the first time you have been bawled out by the old man,” replied Smithy with a broad grin.
“No, but I expect something serious this time,” declared Mason gravely. “Damn those meddlesome reporters!” he burst out savagely. “You know, Smithy, I have been in worse scrapes before, but always managed to patch them up some way. Now, this story gets in the papers, and that prize fight—well, I suppose the quicker I get this matter settled with Dad, the sooner I will know my fate.” He finished, starting for his car.
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