The writer will therefore, if wise, abandon his attentions and
intentions. If I receive any more of his "consolatory letters" I shall
look up Robert Chalmers with detectives. Respectfully,

IRENAEUS TARPION, M. D.




CHAPTER VI

THE YAWL

It is about 10 o'clock at night in the office of the great newspaper.
The night editor sits at his desk reading the latest exchanges. The
telegraph editor labors under a bright yellow light, secured by the use
of a vast expanse of yellow paper.

The assistant telegraph editor is groaning over a fraudulent dispatch
from a correspondent whose repute is the worst.

A place is still vacant at the tables. The marine dispatches are
piling high.

"Where is the sea-dog?" asks the night editor, who is in command of the
paper.

"Good evening, Corkey," says the telegraph editor. "I trust we are
spared for another day of usefulness," says the night editor, with an