No, Miss, Mr. Watkin isn’t a Negro.

Last time I heard, he’s living at the Old Men’s Home in Walnut Hills. He’s full of stories too, but his aren’t the same as mine.

Gave young Lafcadio his first real job here in Cincinnati, Mr. Watkin would tell me. Met him on a bench at Eden Park of all places. Lafcadio was, of course, reading a book. He was the worst apprentice typesetter I ever had. He had the eyesight of a day-old pup. Got ink over everything except for the type. Had to find him another job just to get him out of my shop. He was sleeping there at the time, and the wife didn’t like the sight of that. Lafcadio was well read, so I thought the library would suit him better and it did. But that librarian was a skinflint. Paid him so little that Lafcadio was still sleeping on the floor of my shop. So I found him another job, a proofreader at a larger printing house. Also bought him a better pair of reading glasses. Loaned him a bit of money too, so that he could pay for room and board at Mrs. Haslam’s. I’m glad I did. Meeting you suited him best. He couldn’t stop talking about the color of your hair. Cinnamon, Lafcadio said it was.

I’d hear these stories later, when Mr. Watkin and I became acquainted.

The evening we met, Mr. Watkin was all briskness and worry. If he could find someone to watch his shop, he planned to take the train to Memphis the very next day and from there catch a steamboat down to New Orleans, he said. Breakbone fever is the thanks that Lafcadio gets for reporting in that part of the country, Mrs. Hearn. Mosquitoes and Rebs are what Louisiana has in spades, I’d warned him. But you know how Lafcadio can be. When his mind is set on something, it’s impossible to dissuade him.

I received a letter from Lafcadio today, Mr. Watkin said. Lafcadio wanted me to give you the address of the hospital where he’s confined. He said that your boy Bill could help you with the address. Here, I hope Bill can read my handwriting. Printers, we don’t have the best penmanship, Mrs. Hearn.

No, Lafcadio didn’t say what he wanted from you, Mrs. Hearn.

I would think for you—and Bill—to send him a letter. Illness can make even the proudest man lonesome, Mrs. Hearn.

I’ll ask something of you, Mrs. Hearn, if it’s not too forward. If Lafcadio left any of his clothing here, would you send them to him? Better yet, I could take the garments from you tonight and bring them down to New Orleans with me. Lafcadio wouldn’t want you to know, but I see no reason not to tell you. He has pawned his clothing, probably everything but what was on his back and on his head. He’s as poor in New Orleans as the day he arrived here in Cincinnati, poorer considering that he doesn’t even have his health now.