ed with wild incredulity.

"Do you mean to tell me," he said, "that you, the members of the firm of
Cutt & Slashem, have rejected my story without even reading it?"

The partners glanced at each other again.

"We never read books," said Mr. Cutt.

"Never," said Mr. Slashem, kindly. "We have things much more important
to attend to. We pay Mr. Gouger a large salary. Why, my young friend,
there are probably a dozen manuscripts received at our office every
week. If we were to try to _read_ them, who do you think would attend
to the _essential_ points of our business?"

Roseleaf's contempt for the concern was increasing at lightning speed.
He did not care to mince his words, for it could make no difference now.

"I should imagine that the selection of the books you are to print would
be at least as important as the paper you are to use," he retorted.

Mr. Cutt looked at him in great astonishment.

"You are much mistaken," said he.

"Entirely mistaken," confirmed Mr. Slashem.

The author had no desire to remain longer, as it was evident he was
losing his temper to no purpose. If it was Mr. Gouger who had rejected
his work, it was Mr. Gouger that he must see.

Bowing with ironical grace to the examiners of printing paper, he took
leave of them, and mounted to the sanctum of the man who he had been
told was the arbiter of his fate. A girl with soiled hands pointed out
the room, for there was nothing to indicate it upon the dingy panel of
the door; and presently Roseleaf stood in the presence of the individual
he believed at that moment his worst enemy.

There were two men in the room. One of them indicated with a motion of
his hand that the other was the one wanted, and with a second motion
that the caller might be seated. Mr. Gouger was partly hidden behind a
desk, engaged in turning over a heap of manuscript, and it appeared from
the manner of his companion that he did not wish to be disturbed.

Somewhat cooled down by this state of affairs, the young novelist took
the chair indicated and waited several minutes.

"What d--d nonsense they are sending me these days!" exclaimed Mr.
Gouger at last, thrusting the sheets he had been scanning back into the
wrapper in which they had come, without, however, raising his eyes from
his desk. "Out of a hundred stories I read, not three are fit to build a
fire with! This thing is written by a girl who ought to take a term in a
grammar school. She has no more idea of syntax t