"For your own good, Shorely, my boy," said Gibberts, calming down as
rapidly as he had flared up. He was a most uncertain man. "For your own
good, and if you don't take this story, some one else will. It will
make the fortune of the paper that secures it. Now, you read it while I
wait. Here it is, typewritten, at one-and-three a thousand words, all
to save your blessed eyesight."

Shorely took the manuscript and lit the gas, for it was getting dark.
Gibberts sat down awhile, but soon began to pace the room, much to
Shorely's manifest annoyance. Not content with this, he picked up the
poker and noisily stirred the fire. "For Heaven's sake, sit down,
Gibberts, and be quiet!" cried Shorely, at last.

Gibberts seized the poker as if it had been a weapon, and glared at the
editor.

"I won't sit down, and I will make just as much noise as I want to," he
roared. As he stood there defiantly, Shorely saw a gleam of insanity in
his eyes.

"Oh, very well, then," said Shorely, continuing to read the story.

For a moment Gibberts stood grasping the poker by the middle, then he
flung it with a clatter on the fender, and, sitting down, gazed moodily
into the fire, without moving, until Shorely had turned the last page.

"Well," said Gibberts, rousing from his reverie, "what do you think of
it?"