"I guess it won't do," he said rather uncertainly as Galton laid a
sheet down.

Galton was worn out himself and harried by his nerves.

"No, it won't," he said; and then as he saw Tembarom move to the
other foot he added, "Not as it is."

Tembarom braced himself and cleared his throat.

"If," he ventured--" well, you've been mighty easy on me, Mr Galton--
and this is a big chance for a fellow like me. If it's too big a
chance--why--that's all. But if it's anything I could change and it
wouldn't be too much trouble to tell me--"

"There's no time to rewrite it," answered Galton. "It must be handed
in to-morrow. It's too flowery. Too many adjectives. I've no time to
give you--" He snatched up a blue pencil and began to slash at the
paper with it. "Look here-- and here--cut out that balderdash--cut
this--and this-- oh,--" throwing the pencil down,--"you'd have to cut
it all out. There's no time." He fell back in his chair with a
hopeless movement, and rubbed his forehead nervously with the back of
his hand. Ten people more or less were waiting to speak to him; he
was worn out with the rush of work. He believed in the page, and did
not want to give up his idea; but he didn't know a man to hand it to
other than this untrained, eager ignoramus whom he had a queer
personal liking for. He was no business of his, a mere stenographer
in his office with whom he could be expected to have no relations,
and yet a curious sort of friendliness verging on intimacy had