Pages of Promise by Gilbert Morris Page A

her eye!
    Stephanie waited for Taylor to speak. She could tell, even though he was seated, that he was very tall and was strongly built. He wore a gray sport coat with a maroon tie, but his collar was pulled open. He had reddish-brown hair and sharp brown eyes, and they took her in critically. There were scars around his eyes, and one of his ears was puffy.
    When he didn’t speak, she said, “I see you’re a prizefighter.”
    Taylor’s eyes opened fully then, with surprise. “You noticed that, did you? All these scars and my cauliflower ear? Well, I used to be.” He motioned with his head to a picture hanging among others. “That’s me when I was eighteen; I was going to be the next heavyweight champion of the world.”
    Stephanie moved over to the wall and studied the picture. It was a younger Taylor wearing trunks and holding his fists up for a publicity picture. His curly hair was down in his eyes, and he was unmarked at the time. She turned back and said, “Why did you decide to give up fighting?”
    “I got my brains beat out in my third professional fight,” he said, laughing. He had a dimple in his right cheek, and she thought he looked like a rough-hewn Clark Gable.
    He was appraising her, as well. She said, “This must be awful for you, for your boss to shove a novice into your lap.” He grinned suddenly and she flushed. “I didn’t mean that literally.”
    Taylor’s eyebrows went up, and he straightened in his chair and patted his thighs. “Any time you need a father confessor, my lap is available.”
    “I had enough of that sort of talk in junior high school, Mr. Taylor,” she said. “Now, let’s get one thing straight. This is a business arrangement.”
    “Right,” Taylor said, assuming a stern frown. “I don’t want you making any advances toward me, Miss Stuart! I know how you young women are, always after older men.” Taylor looked to be twenty-five, and there was a light of humor in his eyes as he leaned back and locked his fingers behind his head. “Sit down and tell me why you think you can be a reporter,” he demanded.
    For the next twenty minutes, Stephanie talked. “I’ve always wanted to be like my granddad. He’s gone everywhere, he knows all sorts of people, he’s had an exciting life. That’s what I want,” she began. “I want to see the Casbah, to live in London or Paris, to travel to Korea and Japan, to learn about life, and to write about it.” Taylor prodded her with sharp, probing questions. He was a reporter, all right, and by the time the interview was over Stephanie felt drained. “Well, are you satisfied?” she said.
    “Nope. This is all talk. We’ll find out if you can write.” He leaned forward, shuffled through a bunch of papers, and handed her some. “Write this up,” he directed.
    Taking the wrinkled papers, Stephanie squinted her eyes. “Why, this writing is terrible!”
    “It’s mine!” Taylor answered cheerfully. “I just jotted down the general facts. Now, you put it all together. You know, the where, the who, the how, the why, and so forth.”
    “You mean—in here?”
    “Oh, no. Come along. The office next door is empty. A fellow named Hatton had it until yesterday morning.”
    “Well, won’t he care?”
    “He doesn’t work here anymore. I fired him. Come along.” When he stood up she saw that he was at least six feet two and had the heavy shoulders of a boxer. She followed him as he ambled out and moved to the door next to his and opened it. “Here’s your kingdom,” he said. “All you need. A desk, a phone, and a typewriter. When you get through, bring it back to me. Let’s see what you can do.”
    Stephanie was startled by the suddenness of it all. The door closed behind her, and she approached the desk, which was a scarred oak model that had seen much service. The chair that she sat in was on rollers, but one was missing so she had to keep it balanced. A battered Underwood typewriter was the only thing on the desk, and,