Jack and the Check Book

by John Kendrick Bangs

Overview

Book Excerpt: quite as rich and fertile as my own little place up in Vermont, and your cattle, though evidently of fine breed, are hardly what Montana ranch-men would consider first class. Still--"The ogre stopped eating and looked at the speaker with considerable surprise."You mean to say you can beat this place of mine anywhere?" he demanded."Well," said Jack, amiably, "of course I don't mean to criticise this beautiful country. It is very beautiful in its own way, and there is some evidence of wealth here. I was only saying that next to my place it comes pretty near to being the finest I ever saw.""I guess you'd go a good many miles before you'd see a castle like mine," said the ogre, with a proud glance around him."I haven't seen your castle yet, sir," said Jack. "But this little bungalow we are in strikes me as about as cute and comfy a cozy-corner as I've visited in a month of Sundays.""Bungalow?" roared the giant. "You don't call this a bungalow, do you?""Why,Read More

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781500215231
Publisher:	CreateSpace Publishing
Publication date:	06/18/2014
Pages:	46
Product dimensions:	5.98(w) x 9.02(h) x 0.10(d)

About the Author

John Kendrick Bangs (May 27, 1862 - January 21, 1922) was an American author, humorist, editor and satirist.He was born in Yonkers, New York. His father Francis Nehemiah Bangs was a lawyer in New York City, as was his brother, Francis S. Bangs.He went to Columbia College from 1880 to 1883 where he became editor of Columbia's literary magazine, Acta Columbia, and contributed short anonymous pieces to humor magazines. After graduation in 1883 with a Bachelor of Philosophy degree in Political Science, Bangs entered Columbia Law School but left in 1884 to become Associate Editor of Life under Edward S. Martin. Bangs contributed many articles and poems to the magazine between 1884 and 1888. During this period, Bangs published his first books.

Read an Excerpt

II THE GREAT WISH SYNDICATE HE farm had gone to ruin. On every side the pastures were filled with a rank growth of thistles and other thorn - bearing flora. The farm buildings had fallen into a condition of hopeless disrepair, and the old house, the ancestral home of the Wilbrahams, had become a place of appalling desolation. The roof had been patched and repatched for decades, and now fulfilled none of the ideals of its roof- hood save that of antiquity. There was not, as far as the eye could see, a single whole pane of glass in any one of the many windows of the mansion, and there were not wanting those in the community who were willing to prophesy that in a stiff galesuch as used to be prevalent in that section of the world, and within the recollection of some of the old settlers toothe chimneys, once the pride of the county, would totter and fall, bringing the whole mansion down into chaos and ruin. In short, the one-time model farm of the Wilbrahams had become a byword and a jest and, as some said, of no earthly use save for the particular purposes of the eccentric artist in search of picturesque subject-matter for his studies in oil. It was a wild night, and within the ancient house sat the owner, Richard Wilbraham, his wife not far away, trying to find room upon her husband's last remaining pair of socks to dam them. Wilbraham gazed silently into the glowing embers on the hearth before them, the stillness of the evening broken only by the hissing of the logs on the andirons and an occasional sigh from one of the watchers. Finally the woman spoke. "When does the mortgage fall due, Richard?" she asked, moving uneasily in her chair. "To-morrow," gulped the man, the word seemingto catch in his throat and choke him. "And youyou are sure Colonel Digby wil...