malevolently at me from a darkened corner of the room. This creature
blinked at me several times very rapidly, wiggled its mustache and
suddenly disappeared into the thick shadows.

"Who is that?" I cried, startled.

"That's our mad photographer," said the Chief. "What do you think of
him?"

"Do you keep him in there?" I asked, pointing to the coal-black
cupboard-like room into which this strange creature had disappeared.

"Yes," said the Chief, "and he likes it. Often he stays there for days
at a time, only coming out for air." At this juncture there came from
the dark room the sounds of breaking glass, which was immediately
followed by strange animal-like sounds as the mad photographer burst
out of his den and proclaimed to all the world that nothing meant very
much in his life and that it would be absolutely immaterial to him if
the paper and its entire staff should suddenly be visited with flood,
fire and famine. After this gracious and purely gratuitous piece of
information he again withdrew, but strange mutterings still continued
to issue forth from his lair. While I was sitting in the office the
editor happened to drift in from the adjacent room crisply attired in
a pair of ragged, disreputable trousers and a sleeveless gray sweater
which was raveling in numerous places. It was the shock of my life.

"Where's our yeoman?" he grumbled, at which the yeoman, who somehow
reminded me of some character from one of Dickens's novels, edged out
of the door, but he was too late. Spying him, the editor launched
forth on a violent denunciation, in which for no particular reason the