When Walt Mason was 48 he had good reason to fear his fate. Small-town newsman with roving feet, he had drunk his way through many a sheet when he went to William Allen White, swore to work hard, not get tight. Pressing grindstone to his nose, he wrote a batch of rhyming prose. Walt Mason's doggerel, couched in slang, hit the syndicates with a bang; rich, respected, worth his salt grew reformed Booze-hoister Walt.
"Priest of horse-sense" to George Ade, he lived to see his fashion fade. But Walt achieved a modest pile before his stuff went out of style, retired to...
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