winn

PETER WINN lay back comfortably in a library chair, with closed eyes, deep in the cogitation of a scheme of campaign destined in the near future to make a certain coterie of hostile financiers sit up.

As Peter Winn's secretary it was his task to weed out, sort, and classify his employer's mail.

"Read it," Peter Winn commanded, without opening his eyes.

Peter Winn, SIR: I send you respectfully by express a pigeon worth good money.

The secretary was inclined to take the affair as a practical joke, but Peter Winn, after an examination of the pigeon, thought otherwise.

"He'll break his neck yet," Peter Winn remarked, half-fiercely, half-proudly, as he led the way to the veranda.

But Peter Winn was a very busy man, with such large plans in his head and with so many reins in his hands that he quickly forgot the incident.

Yet, in the early morning Peter Winn learned by telephone that his sister's home in Alameda had been burned to the ground.

Peter Winn, RESPECTABLE SIR: It was me that fixed yr sisters house.

Peter Winn was ready to acknowledge himself beaten.

"Hold on, father, don't send that money," said Peter Winn, Junior.