h the pages of
the manuscript.

Presently they brought the author back again. He had assumed a look of
depression.

"I have decided," I said, "to take your manuscript."

Joy broke upon his face. He came nearer to me as if to lick my hand.

"Stop a minute," I said. "I am willing to take your story, but there are
certain things, certain small details which I want to change."

"Yes?" he said timidly.

"In the first place, I don't like your title. _Dorothy Dacres, or, Only
a Clergyman's Daughter_ is too quiet. I shall change it to read
_Dorothea Dashaway, or, The Quicksands of Society_."

"But surely," began the contributor, beginning to wring his hands----

"Don't interrupt me," I said. "In the next place, the story is much too
long." Here I reached for a large pair of tailor's scissors that lay on
the table. "This story contains nine thousand words. We never care to
use more than six thousand. I must therefore cut some of it off." I
measured the story carefully with a pocket tape that lay in front of me,
cut off three thousand words and handed them back to the author. "These
words," I said, "you may keep. We make no claim on them at all. You are
at liberty to make any use of them that you like."

"But please," he said, "you have cut off all the end of the story: the
whole conclusion is gone. The readers can't possibly tell,----"

I smiled at him with something approaching kindness.

"My dear sir," I said, "they _never_ get beyond three thousand words of
the end of a magazine story. The end is of no consequence whatever. The
beginning, I admit, may be, but the end! Come! Come! And in any case in
our magazine we print the end of each story separately, distributed
among the advertisements to break the type. But just at present we have
plenty of these on hand. You see," I continued, for there was something
in the man's manner that almost touched me, "all that is needed is that
the last words printed must have a look of finality. That's all. Now,
let me see," and I turned to the place where the story was cut, "what
are the last words: here: 'Dorothea sank into a chair. There we must
leave her!' Excellent! What better end could you want? She sank into a
chair and you leave her. Nothing more natural."

The contributor seemed about to protest. But I stopped him.

"There is one other small thing," I said. "Our coming number is to be a
Plumbers' and Motor Number. I must ask you to introduce a certain amount
of plumbi