From 2412a10eca00259483d0719a62278b62daa7e27e Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Nick Corrado Date: Tue, 29 Aug 2023 22:10:52 -0400 Subject: [PATCH] Fix typo aid -> said --- src/epub/text/a-christmas-pi.xhtml | 2 +- 1 file changed, 1 insertion(+), 1 deletion(-) diff --git a/src/epub/text/a-christmas-pi.xhtml b/src/epub/text/a-christmas-pi.xhtml index 61f669a..26a8c66 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/a-christmas-pi.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/a-christmas-pi.xhtml @@ -13,7 +13,7 @@

Every June I am asked to write a Christmas story. Every August I promise, vow, insist, swear that it shall be ready in two weeks. And every November I protest that I am sorry, but I couldn’t think of anything new and⁠—well, next year, sure. It was so last year and the year before. It was so this year. And I said to myself that next year it would not be so. I would spend Christmas Eve looking about me. I would get copy from a cop, material from a mater, plot from a messenger boy. And behold! it was Christmas Eve.

It was Christmas Eve, to give a synopsis of preceding chapters. I will fine-toothcomb the town for an idea next summer, quoth I. And so I walked, rode and taxi-cabbed. I spoke to waiters, subway guards, chauffeurs and newsboys and tried to draw from them some bit of life, some experience that might make a story, a Christmas story, C.O.D., at twenty cents a word. But there was not a syllable in the silly bunch, not a comma in the comatose lot.

And then I wandered into Grand Street and I saw that which made me instinctively clutch my fountain pen. A man, unswept, unmoneyed and unstrung, was about to hurl a brick into a pawnbroker’s window. His arm was raised and he was as deliberate as Mr. Tri-Digital Brown of Chicago trying to lessen the average of Mr. John P. Hanswagner of Pittsburgh. (I always spell Pittsburgh with the final “h”; it’s a final h of a town.)

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“Here, Bill,” I aid, “I wouldn’t do that.”

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“Here, Bill,” I said, “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh, yes, you would,” he responded.

Which was my chance. “Let us withdraw to yonder inn,” I said, like a head chorus-man whose object is to “get ’em off,” “and we can discuss things.”

“What’s the game?” I asked, after the waiter had received instructions.