“Dig up, you venerable discourager of rising young talent!” Martin exhorted.  “Dig up, or I’ll shake it out of you, even if it’s all in nickels.”  Then, to the two affrighted onlookers:  “Keep away!  If you interfere, somebody’s liable to get hurt.”

Mr. Ends was choking, and it was not until the grip on his throat was eased that he was able to signify his acquiescence in the digging-up programme.  All together, after repeated digs, its trousers pocket yielded four dollars and fifteen cents.

“Inside out with it,” Martin commanded.

An additional ten cents fell out.  Martin counted the result of his raid a second time to make sure.

“You next!” he shouted at Mr. Ford.  “I want seventy-five cents more.”

Mr. Ford did not wait, but ransacked his pockets, with the result of sixty cents.

“Sure that is all?” Martin demanded menacingly, possessing himself of it.  “What have you got in your vest pockets?”

In token of his good faith, Mr. Ford turned two of his pockets inside out.  A strip of cardboard fell to the floor from one of them.  He recovered it and was in the act of returning it, when Martin cried:-

“What’s that?—­A ferry ticket?  Here, give it to me.  It’s worth ten cents.  I’ll credit you with it.  I’ve now got four dollars and ninety-five cents, including the ticket.  Five cents is still due me.”

He looked fiercely at Mr. White, and found that fragile creature in the act of handing him a nickel.

“Thank you,” Martin said, addressing them collectively.  “I wish you a good day.”

“Robber!” Mr. Ends snarled after him.

“Sneak-thief!” Martin retorted, slamming the door as he passed out.

Martin was elated—­so elated that when he recollected that The Hornet owed him fifteen dollars for “The Peri and the Pearl,” he decided forthwith to go and collect it.  But The Hornet was run by a set of clean-shaven, strapping young men, frank buccaneers who robbed everything and everybody, not excepting one another.  After some breakage of the office furniture, the editor (an ex-college athlete), ably assisted by the business manager, an advertising agent, and the porter, succeeded in removing Martin from the office and in accelerating, by initial impulse, his descent of the first flight of stairs.

“Come again, Mr. Eden; glad to see you any time,” they laughed down at him from the landing above.

Martin grinned as he picked himself up.

“Phew!” he murmured back.  “The Transcontinental crowd were nanny-goats, but you fellows are a lot of prize-fighters.”

More laughter greeted this.

“I must say, Mr. Eden,” the editor of The Hornet called down, “that for a poet you can go some yourself.  Where did you learn that right cross—­if I may ask?”

“Where you learned that half-Nelson,” Martin answered.  “Anyway, you’re going to have a black eye.”