ore as you like. It is your trade, and you must do
it or starve. But do not come to me again." Then he opened the door
and stood with it in his hand.

"Very well, sir. I shall know how to punish this."

"Exactly. But if you please you'll go and do your punishment at the
office of the _Banner_,--unless you like to try it here. You want to
kick me and spit at me, but you will prefer to do it in print."

"Yes, sir," said Quintus Slide. "I shall prefer to do it in
print,--though I must own that the temptation to adopt the manual
violence of a ruffian is great, very great, very great indeed." But
he resisted the temptation and walked down the stairs, concocting his
article as he went.

Mr. Quintus Slide did not so much impede the business of his day but
what Phineas was with Mr. Monk by two, and in his place in the House
when prayers were read at four. As he sat in his place, conscious
of the work that was before him, listening to the presentation of
petitions, and to the formal reading of certain notices of motions,
which with the asking of sundry questions occupied over half an
hour, he looked back and remembered accurately his own feelings on
a certain night on which he had intended to get up and address the
House. The ordeal before him had then been so terrible, that it had
almost obliterated for the moment his senses of hearing and of sight.
He had hardly been able to perceive what had been going on around
him, and had vainly endeavoured to occupy himself in recalling to
his memory the words which he wished to pronounce. When the time for
pronouncing them had come, he had found himself unable to stand upon
his legs. He smiled as he recalled all this in his memory, waiting
impatiently for the moment in which he might rise. His audience was
assured to him now, and he did not fear it. His opportunity for
utterance was his own, and even the Speaker could not deprive him of
it. During these minutes he thought not at all of the words that he
was to say. He had prepared his matter but had prepared no words. He
knew that words would come readily enough to him, and that he had
learned the task of turning his thoughts quickly into language while
standing with a crowd of listeners around him,--as a practised writer
does when seated in his chair. There was no violent beating at his
heart now, no dimness of the eyes, no feeling that the ground was
turning round under his feet. If only those weary vain questions
would get themse