"My opinion in a nutshell," said Psmith, approvingly. "Comrade
Jackson," he explained, turning to Billy, "has a secure reputation
on the other side for the keenness and lucidity of his views upon
literature. You may safely build upon him. In England when Comrade
Jackson says 'Turn' we all turn. Now, my views on the matter are as
follows. _Cosy Moments_, in my opinion (worthless, were it not backed
by such a virtuoso as Comrade Jackson), needs more snap, more go.
All these putrid pages must disappear. Letters must be despatched
to-morrow morning, informing Luella Granville Waterman and the
others (and in particular B. Henderson Asher, who from a cursory
glance strikes me as an ideal candidate for a lethal chamber) that,
unless they cease their contributions instantly, you will be
compelled to place yourself under police protection. After that we
can begin to move."

Billy Windsor sat and rocked himself in his chair without replying.
He was trying to assimilate this idea. So far the grandeur of it
had dazed him. It was too spacious, too revolutionary. Could it be
done? It would undoubtedly mean the sack when Mr. J. Fillken
Wilberfloss returned and found the apple of his eye torn asunder
and, so to speak, deprived of its choicest pips. On the other hand
. . . His brow suddenly cleared. After all, what was the sack? One
crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name, and
he would have no name as long as he clung to his present position.
The editor would be away ten weeks. He would have ten weeks in
which to try himself out. Hope leaped within him. In ten weeks he
could change _Cosy Moments_ into a real live paper. He wondered that
the idea had not occurred to him before. The trifling fact that the
despised journal was the property of Mr. Benjamin White, and that