e, so
to speak."

But the Professor had sprung up as if to give his lungs more room to
expand; and from them there issued a laugh which shook the editorial
rafters.

"Oh, Lord, oh Lord--is it really as good as that?" he gasped.

Harviss had glanced instinctively toward the electric bell on his desk;
it was evident that he was prepared for an emergency.

"My dear fellow--" he began in a soothing tone.

"Oh, let me have my laugh out, do," implored the Professor. "I'll--I'll
quiet down in a minute; you needn't ring for the young man." He dropped
into his chair again, and grasped its arms to steady his shaking. "This
is the best laugh I've had since college," he brought out between his
paroxysms. And then, suddenly, he sat up with a groan. "But if it's as
good as that it's a failure!" he exclaimed.

Harviss, stiffening a little, examined the tip of his cigar. "My dear
Linyard," he said at length, "I don't understand a word you're saying."

The Professor succumbed to a fresh access, from the vortex of which he
managed to fling out--"But that's the very core of the joke!"

Harviss looked at him resignedly. "What is?"

"Why, your not seeing--your not understanding--"

"Not understanding _what?"_

"Why, what the book is meant to be." His laughter subsided again and he
sat gazing thoughtfully at the publisher. "Unless it means," he wound
up, "that I've over-shot the mark."

"If I am the mark, you certainly have," said Harviss, with a glance at
the clock.

The Professor caught the glance and interpreted it. "The book is a
skit," he said, rising.

The other stared. "A skit? It's not serious, you mean?"

"Not to me--but it seems you've taken it so."

"You never told me--" began the publisher in a ruffled tone.

"No, I never told you," said the Professor.

Harviss sat staring at the manuscript between them. "I don't pretend to
be up in such recondite forms of humour," he said, still stiffly. "Of
course you address yourself to a very small class of readers."

"Oh, infinitely small," admitted the Professor, extending his hand
toward the manuscript.

Harviss appeared to be pursuing his own train of thought. "That is," he
continued, "if you insist on an ironical interpretation."

"If I insist on it--what do you mean?"

The publisher smiled faintly. "Well--isn't the book susceptible of
another? If _I_ read it without seeing--"

"Well?" murmured the other, fascinated.--"why shouldn't the rest of the
world?" d