MR. FITZGERALD. How do you do. I’m afraid it’s an awful nuisance for you to see me. Mr. Brooks. Not at all. I’m glad to. I’m only sorry to have had to put it off. But I’ve been so frightfully busy with my book that I haven’t ben able to do anything. Mr. Fitzgerald. What’s that—the James? I suppose you’re trying to have it out in time to get the benefit of the publicity of the Dial award. Mr. Brooks. Oh, no: it may take me a long time yet. But it’s really rather a complicated job and I don’t like to drop a chapter in the middle or I lose all the threads.
THE dismissal of Harry Daugherty and the disheartening final correspondence between him and President Coolidge brings to an appropriately mean and equivocal end one of the most discreditable episodes in American political annals.
IT is so easy to perceive decay in an old political party that the very fact causes doubt of the value of the evidence.
A FEW weeks ago the Department of Commerce issued a newspaper statement about sugar. It was highly statistical and painfully dull in style, but it contained a few words destined to have results sensational enough for anybody. “Production for 1923 only 125,000 tons higher than last year,” said a note at the beginning.