suspended on the wall over his shoulder, and on this it was his habit to
impale, by a remarkable twist of body and arm, gems for his hebdomadal
journal. He wrote on a pad held in his ample lap, the paste brush was
within easy reach, and once planted on his throne the editor was
established for the day. Bound volumes of the "Congressional Record" in
their original wrappers were piled in a corner. A consular report,
folded in half, was thrust under the editor's right thigh, easly
accessible in ferocious moments when he indulged himself in the felicity
of slaughtering the roaches with which the place swarmed. He gave Dan a
limp fat hand, and cleared a chair of exchanges with one foot, which he
thereupon laboriously restored to its accustomed place on the desk.

"So you're from the 'Courier'? Well, sir, you may tell your managing
editor for me that if he doesn't print more of my stuff he can get
somebody else on the job here."

Dan soothed Mr. Pettit's feelings as best he could; he confessed that
his own best work was mercilessly cut; and that, after all, the editors
of city newspapers were poor judges of the essential character of news.
When Pettit's good humor had been restored, Dan broached the nature of
his errand. As he mentioned Morton Bassett's name the huge editor's face
grew blank for a moment; then he was shaken with mirth that passed from
faint quivers until his whole frame was convulsed. His rickety chair
trembled and rattled ominously. It was noiseless laughter so far as any
vocal manifestations were concerned; but it shook the gigantic editor as
though he were a mould of jelly. He closed his eyes, but otherwise his
fat face was expressionless.

"Goin' to write Mort up, are you? Well, by gum! I've been readin' those
pieces in the 'Courier.' Your work? Good writin'; mighty interestin'