The cause aroused his passion for justice, for democratic equality and the
abolition of privilege. He had something to say and he succeeded in saying
it vigorously, effectively, with clearness and moderation of statement. How
to avoid hysteria; how to set others on fire instead of only making of
himself a fiery spectacle; how to be earnest, yet calm; how to be satirical
yet sincere; how to be interesting, yet direct--these were his objects,
pursued with incessant toiling, rewriting again and again, recasting of
sentences, careful balancing of words for exact shades of meaning.

"I shall never learn to write," had been his complaint of himself to
himself for years. And in these days it seemed to him that he was farther
from a good style than ever. His standards had risen, were rising; he
feared that his power of accomplishment was failing. Therefore his heart
sank and his face paled when an office boy told him that Mr. Malcolm wished
to see him.

"I suppose it's to tell me not to annoy him with any more of my attempts,"
he thought. "Well, anyway, I've had the benefit of the work. I'll try a
novel next."

"Take a seat," said Mr. Malcolm with an absent nod. "Just a moment, if you
please."

On a chair beside him was the remnant of what had been a huge up-piling of
newspapers--the exchanges that had come in during the past twenty-four
hours. The Exchange Editor had been through them and Mr. Malcolm was
reading "to feel the pulse of the country" and also to make sure that
nothing of importance had been overlooked.

On the floor were newspapers by the score, thrown about tumultuously. Mr.