The Genius Read Online Free PDF

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he took her home.
    "You must be melancholy tonight," she remarked, after they had
walked two blocks in complete silence. The streets were dark, and
their feet sounded hollowly on the brick pavement.
    "Oh, I'm feeling all right," he replied moodily.
    "I think it's awfully nice at the Weimers', we always have so
much fun there."
    "Yes, lots of fun," he echoed contemptuously.
    "Oh, don't be so cross!" she flared. "You haven't any reason for
fussing."
    "Haven't I?"
    "No, you haven't."
    "Well if that's the way you feel about it I suppose I haven't. I
don't see it that way."
    "Well, it doesn't make any difference to me how you see it."
    "Oh, doesn't it?"
    "No, it doesn't." Her head was up and she was angry.
    "Well I'm sure then it doesn't to me."
    There was another silence which endured until they were almost
home.
    "Are you coming to the sociable next Thursday?" he inquired. He
was referring to a Methodist evening entertainment which, although
he cared very little about it, was a convenience as it enabled him
to see her and take her home. He was prompted to ask by the fear
that an open rupture was impending.
    "No," she said. "I don't think I will."
    "Why not?"
    "I don't care to."
    "I think you're mean," he said reprovingly.
    "I don't care," she replied. "I think you're too bossy. I don't
think I like you very much anyhow."
    His heart contracted ominously.
    "You can do as you please," he persisted.
    They reached her gate. It was his wont to kiss her in the
shadow—to hold her tight for a few minutes in spite of her
protests. Tonight, as they approached, he thought of doing it, but
she gave him no chance. When they reached the gate she opened it
quickly and slipped in. "Good-night," she called.
    "Good-night," he said, and then as she reached her door,
"Stella!"
    It was open, and she slipped in. He stood in the dark, hurt,
sore, oppressed. What should he do? He strolled home cudgelling his
brain whether never to speak to or look at her again until she came
to him, or to hunt her up and fight it all out with her. She was in
the wrong, he knew that. When he went to bed he was grieving over
it, and when he awoke it was with him all day.
    He had been gaining rather rapidly as a student of type-setting,
and to a certain extent of the theory of reporting, and he worked
diligently and earnestly at his proposed trade. He loved to look
out of the window and draw, though of late, after knowing Stella so
well and coming to quarrel with her because of her indifference,
there was little heart in it. This getting to the office, putting
on an apron, and starting in on some local correspondence left over
from the day before, or some telegraph copy which had been freshly
filed on his hook, had its constructive value. Williams endeavored
to use him on some local items of news as a reporter, but he was a
slow worker and almost a failure at getting all the facts. He did
not appear to know how to interview anybody, and would come back
with a story which needed to be filled in from other sources. He
really did not understand the theory of news, and Williams could
only make it partially clear to him. Mostly he worked at his case,
but he did learn some things.
    For one thing, the theory of advertising began to dawn on him.
These local merchants put in the same ads. day after day, and many
of them did not change them noticeably. He saw Lyle and Summers
taking the same ads. which had appeared unchangingly from month to
month in so far as their main features were concerned, and alter
only a few words before returning them to the forms. He wondered at
the sameness of them, and when, at last, they were given to him to
revise he often wished he could change them a little. The language
seemed so dull.
    "Why don't they ever put little drawings in these ads?" he asked
Lyle one day. "Don't you think they'd look a little better?"
    "Oh, I don't know," replied Jonas. "They look pretty good. These
people around here wouldn't want anything like that. They'd