To the warden on the wire St.George put his inquiry.
"What are your visitors' days up there, Mr.Jeffrey ?" "Thursdays," came the reply, and the warden's voice suggested handcuffs by way of hospitality.
"This is St.George of the _Sentinel_.

I want very much to see one of your people--a mulatto woman.

Can you fix it for me ?" "Certainly not," returned the warden promptly.

"The _Sentinel_ knows perfectly that newspaper men can not be admitted here." "Ah, well now, of course," St.George conceded, "but if you have a mysterious boarder who talks Patagonian or something, and we think that perhaps we can talk with her, why then--" "It doesn't matter whether you can talk every language in South America," said the warden bruskly.

"I'm very busy now, and--" "See here, Mr.Jeffrey," said St.George, "is no one allowed there but relatives of the guests ?" "Nobody,"-- crisply.
"I beg your pardon, that is literal ?" "Relatives, with a permit," divulged the warden, who, if he had had a sceptre would have used it at table, he was so fond of his little power, "and the Readers' Guild." "Ah--the Readers' Guild," said St.George.