operty, or for one made up of purely original matter."

"We have a great deal of original matter in the _Sponge_."

"Yes, and that's what I object to. Have it all original, or have it all
stolen. Be fish or fowl. At least one hundred men a week see a stolen
article in the _Sponge_ which they have read elsewhere. They then
believe it is all stolen, and you lose them. That isn't business, so I
want to sell you one original tale, which will prove to be the most
remarkable story written in England this year."

"Oh, they all are," said Shorely, wearily. "Every story sent to me is a
most remarkable story, in the author's opinion."

"Look here, Shorely," cried Gibberts, angrily, "you mustn't talk to me
like that. I'm no unknown author, a fact of which you are very well
aware. I don't need to peddle my goods."

"Then why do you come here lecturing me?"

"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?"

"It's a good story, Gibberts. All your stories are good," said the
editor, carelessly.

Gibberts started to his feet, and swore.

"Do you mean to say," he thundered, "that you see nothing in that story
different from any I or any one else ever wrote? Hang it, Shorely, you
wouldn't kn