As we walked he questioned and questioned. He had the history of Laurel
University, the story of my life, out of me, almost, by the time we had
covered the ten blocks to the hotel.
"Penton Baxter!" I whispered in a low voice to the proprietor, who, as
he stood behind the desk, dipped the pen with a flourish, and shoved the
open register toward his distinguished guest.
* * * * *
Travers, of course, was the first to see the great novelist. He wired an
interview to the _Star_, and wrote a story for the Laurel _Globe_ and
the _Laurelian_.
Baxter said he would stay over for two days ... that he didn't want to
do much beside seeing me ... that he would place himself entirely in my
hands. I was beside myself with happy pride.
"This is a glorious country. You must take me for a long walk this
afternoon. I want to tramp away out to that purple bluff toward the
South East."
"We call it Azure Mound."
"Has it any historical interest?"
"--don't know! It might have. Richard Realf, the poet, camped out about
here, on the heights with his men, during the Quantrell Raid, And there
are one or two old settlers in Laurel who were members of John Brown's
company."
Baxter was a good walker. He made me think of Shelley as he traipsed
along, indefatigably talking away, his voice high-pitched and shrill ...
unburdening his mind of all his store of ideas.
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