The aside I had just overheard suggested, at least, one very probable
result. In printer's jargon, I would soon be in "pi."

The remark, combined with my stupid blunder, for which I had blamed an
innocent man, caused me to pull up and ask myself whither I was
hurrying so breathlessly. Saying to my assistant that I did not wish
to be disturbed for a half hour, unless it was essential, I went to my
little inner room. I wished to take a mental inventory of myself, and
see how much was left. Hitherto I had been on the keen run--a
condition not favorable to introspection.

Neither my temperament nor the school in which I had been trained
inclined me to slow, deliberate processes of reasoning. I looked my
own case over as I might that of some brother-editors whose journals
were draining them of life, and whose obituaries I shall probably
write if I survive them. Reason and Conscience, now that I gave them a
chance, began to take me to task severely.

"You are a blundering fool," said Reason, "and the man in the
composing-room is right. You are chafing over petty blunders while
ignoring the fact that your whole present life is a blunder, and the
adequate reason why your faculties are becoming untrustworthy. Each
day you grow more nervously anxious to have everything correct, giving
your mind to endless details, and your powers are beginning to snap
like the overstrained strings of a violin. At this rate you will soon
spend yourself and all there is of you."

Then Conscience, like an irate judge on the bench, arraigned me. "You
are a heathen, and your paper is your car of Juggernaut. You are