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George Barr McCutcheon
George Barr McCutcheon was an American novelist and playwright best known for his "Graustark" series, a set of romantic novels set in a fictional Eastern European country. Born on July 26, 1866, in Tippecanoe County, Indiana, he achieved significant popularity in the early 20th century, particularly with his book "Brewster's Millions," which has been adapted into several films. McCutcheon's work often combined adventure, romance, and humor, capturing the imaginations of a broad audience during his career.
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It was characteristic of Mr. Philip Quentin that he first lectured his servant on the superiority of mind over matter and then took him cheerfully by the throat and threw him into a far corner of the room. As the servant was not more than half the size of the master, his opposition was merely vocal, but it was nevertheless unmistakable. His early career had increased his vocabulary and his language was...
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CHAPTER I THE LATE MR. SKAGGS The death of Taswell Skaggs was stimulating, to say the least, inapplicable though the expression may seem. He attained the end of a hale old age by tumbling aimlessly into the mouth of a crater on the island of Japat, somewhere in the mysterious South Seas. The volcano was not a large one and the crater, though somewhat threatening at times, was correspondingly minute,...
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THE PURPLE PARASOL Young Rossiter did not like the task. The more he thought of it as he whirled northward on the Empire State Express the more distasteful it seemed to grow. "Hang it all," he thought, throwing down his magazine in disgust, "it's like police work. And heaven knows I haven't wanted to be a cop since we lived in Newark twenty years ago. Why the dickens did old...
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THE BEGINNING Kenneth Gwynne was five years old when his father ran away withRachel Carter, a widow. This was in the spring of 1812, and inthe fall his mother died. His grandparents brought him up to hateRachel Carter, an evil woman. She was his mother's friend and she had slain her with the viper's tooth. From the day that his questioning intelligence seized upon the truth that had been so...
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CHAPTER I THE FIRST WAYFARER AND THE SECOND WAYFARER MEET AND PART ON THE HIGHWAY A solitary figure trudged along the narrow road that wound its serpentinous way through the dismal, forbidding depths of the forest: a man who, though weary and footsore, lagged not in his swift, resolute advance. Night was coming on, and with it the no uncertain prospects of storm. Through the foliage that overhung the...
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CHAPTER ONE In the first place, Mr. Yollop knew nothing about firearms. And so, after he had overpowered the burglar and relieved him of a fully loaded thirty-eight, he was singularly unimpressed by the following tribute from the bewildered and somewhat exasperated captive: "Say, ain't you got any more sense than to tackle a man with a gun, you chuckle-headed idiot?" (Only he did not say...
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CHAPTER I "The Little Sons of the Rich" were gathered about the long table in Pettingill's studio. There were nine of them present, besides Brewster. They were all young, more or less enterprising, hopeful, and reasonably sure of better things to come. Most of them bore names that meant something in the story of New York. Indeed, one of them had remarked, "A man is known by the street...
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CHAPTER I MR. AND MRS. BLITHERS DISCUSS MATRIMONY "My dear," said Mr. Blithers, with decision," you can't tell me." "I know I can't," said his wife, quite as positively. She knew when she could tell him a thing and when she couldn't. It was quite impossible to impart information to Mr. Blithers when he had the tips of two resolute fingers embedded in his ears....
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THE DAY OF THE DOG PART I "I'll catch the first train back this evening, Graves. Wouldn't go down there if it were not absolutely necessary; but I have just heard that Mrs. Delancy is to leave for New York to-night, and if I don't see her to-day there will be a pack of troublesome complications. Tell Mrs. Graves she can count me in on the box party to-night." "We'll need...
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CHAPTER I THE FIVE LITTLE SYKESES A coal fire crackled cheerily in the little open grate that supplied warmth to the steam-heated living-room in the modest apartment of Mr. Thomas S. Bingle, lower New York, somewhere to the west of Fifth Avenue and not far removed from Washington Square—in the wrong direction, however, if one must be precise in the matter of emphasizing the social independence of the...
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