The Scribe Read Online Free PDF

all right, but I wanted to be certain the Constitution got her due. I spent the next half hour transmitting pages from a spelling book.”
    â€œHe did it to tie up the line, you see!”
    Grady sipped from a glass of iced tea while he waited for the laughter to subside. “The boys from the Chicago Tribune have never forgiven me.”
    But the smile faded from his lips when he turned to see Canby glaring at him from across the room.
    Canby was starting toward Grady, pulling against Vernon’s hand on his arm, when a tall man in a white suit began tapping a butter knife against a glass. The sound carried over the din clearly and the men began to quiet.
    â€œGentlemen!” the man said. “May we take our seats? Bishop Drew will convene with a prayer.”
    Vernon led Canby to the table, taking seats for them next to the tall man.
    â€œRobert,” Vernon said, “may I introduce Thomas Canby, who has agreed to help us?”
    Canby took the man’s hand and found his handshake as strong as a country man’s. As they sat and the bishop began his prayer, the man leaned in to Canby’s ear and whispered: “Thiscould take a while. Drew is the head of the Georgia Diocese. One only attains such a position by praying ardently and at great length.”
    Canby smiled and looked up at the bishop’s smooth face, his eyes shut tightly, like those of every man around the table save his new acquaintance.
    â€œWhat is it that you do, Robert?” he whispered.
    â€œOh, I own a couple of cotton gins. But my heart is in the new industries. My chief concern is Dixie Light.”
    â€œDixie Light? Then you are Colonel Robert Billingsley. I should have known your face. I beg your pardon.”
    Billingsley smiled. “Think nothing of it. I try to stay out of the papers as much as I can. I’m certain you understand that.”
    Canby looked over at the man sharply, but his smile was kind enough to make Canby see that the comment was not intended as a barb. As the bishop continued his prayer, Billingsley leaned close to Canby’s ear.
    â€œI’ve talked with Vernon about you at length. He and I both see this case as an opportunity for your vindication. What happened in ’77 was inevitable. The Radicals had to go. But it was unfortunate that you got swept out with the trash. It must have been extremely difficult for you to endure.”
    Canby looked into the man’s clear blue eyes. “They ruined my name.”
    Billingsley nodded slowly, his eyes sad. “Perhaps with this case you shall get it back.”
    â€œAmen,” Bishop Drew said.
    â€œAmen,” Billingsley echoed.
    A half dozen waiters stepped forward from their placesagainst the walls and began removing the covers from the tureens at each man’s place. The scent of turtle soup filled the room as the men fell to their food, and Henry Grady rose and began to speak.
    â€œLet me begin my remarks by saying good evening to all of you collectively,” Grady said. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I go on at some length tonight. I would not talk so much, gentlemen, except that my father was an Irishman, and my mother was a woman.”
    Grady smiled at the laughter around the table.
    â€œI have been asked to discuss the prospects for our International Cotton Exposition tonight, and I do so with an energy and optimism greater than I have felt in years.”
    A man near the head of the table snorted. “Tell that to the exhibitors. A third of the buildings aren’t even framed up yet.”
    Grady shook his head, still smiling. “Let us not forget what that entity we call the Atlanta Spirit can accomplish. And what it can accomplish in a short time. Our story begins with the Atlanta Spirit, which lifted us, phoenix-like, from the ashes of a devastated city and brought us to this point, whence we will stage an exhibition fit to astonish the nations.
    â€œI remind you that after