s soul when
he gets it? Deodorize it?"

"Harsh words, young sir! Harsh words and treasonable against one of
our leading citizens; multimillionaire philanthropist, social leader,
director of banks, insurance companies and railroads, and emperor of the
race-track, the sport of kings."

"The sport of kings-maintained on the spoils of clerks," retorted
Average Jones. "'To improve the breed of horses,' if you please! To make
thieves of men and harlots of women, because Carroll Morrison must
have his gambling-game dividends! And now he has our 'representative'
legislature working for him to that honorable end!"

"Man to see you, Mr. Waldemar," said an office boy, appearing at the
door.

"Too late," grunted the editor.

"He says it's very particular, sir, and to tell you it's something Mr.
Morrison is interested in."

"Morrison, eh? All right. Just step into the inner office, will you,
Jones? Leave the door open. There might be something interesting."

Hardly had Average Jones found a chair in the darkened office when
the late caller appeared. He was middle-aged, pursy, and dressed with
slap-dash ostentation. His face was bloated and seared with excesses.
But it was not intoxication that sweated on his forehead and quivered
in his jaw. It was terror. He slumped into the waiting chair and mouthed
mutely at the editor.

"Well?" The bullet-like snap of the interrogation stung the man into
babbling speech.

"'S like this, Misser Wald'mar. 'S like this. Y-y-yuh see, 's like this.
Fer Gawsake, kill out an ad for me!"

"What? In to-morrow's paper? Nonsense! You're too late, even if I wished
to do it."

The visitor stood up and dug both hands into his side pockets. He
produced, first a binocular, which, with a snarl, he flung upon the
floor. Before it had stopped bumping, there fluttered down upon the seat
of his chair a handful of greenbacks. Another followed, and another,
and another. The bills toppled and spread, and some of them slid to the
floor. Still the man delved.

"There!" he panted at last. "Money talks. There's the stuff. Count it.
Eighteen hundred if there's a dollar. More likely two thou. If that
ain't enough, make your own price. I don't care what it is. Make it,
Misser. Put a price on it."

There was something loathsome and obscene in the creature's gibbering
flux of words. The editor leaned forward.

"Bribery, eh?" he inquired softly.

The man flinched from the tone. "It ain't bribery, is it, to a