“I will remember what you say, Colonel.”

“I want you,” resumed Colonel Cowles, “to take supper with me at the club.  Not to-night—­I’m engaged.  Shall we say to-morrow night, at seven?”

Queed accepted without perceptible hesitation.  Some time had passed since he became aware that the Colonel had somehow insinuated himself into that list of friends which had halted so long at Tim and Murphy Queed.  Besides, he had a genuine, unscientific desire to see what a real club looked like inside.  So far, his knowledge of clubs was absolutely confined to the Mercury Athletic Association, B. Klinker, President.

The months of May, June, July, and August had risen and died since Queed, threshing out great questions through the still watches of the night, had resolved to give a modified scheme of life a tentative and experimental trial.  He had kept this resolution, according to his wont.  Probably his first liking for Colonel Cowles dated back to the very beginning of this period.  It might be traced to the day when the precariously-placed assistant had submitted his initial article on the thesis his friend Buck had given him—­the first article in all his life that the little Doctor had ever dipped warm out of human life.  This momentous composition he had brought and laid upon the Colonel’s desk, as usual; but he did not follow his ancient custom by instantly vanishing toward the Scriptorium.  Instead he stuck fast in the sanctum, not pretending to look at an encyclopedia or out of the window as another man might have done, but standing rigid on the other side of the table, gaze glued upon the perusing Colonel.  Presently the old editor looked up.

“Did you write this?”

“Yes.  Why not?”

“It’s about as much like your usual style as my style is like Henry James’s.”

“You don’t consider it a good editorial, then?”

“You have not necessarily drawn the correct inference from my remark.  I consider it an excellent editorial.  In fact—­I shall make it my leader to-morrow morning.  But that has nothing to do with how you happen to be using a style exactly the reverse of your own.”

Queed had heaved a great sigh.  The article occupied three pages of copy-paper in a close handwriting, and represented sixteen hours’ work.  Its author had rewritten it eleven times, incessantly referring to his text-book, the files of the Post, and subjecting each phrase to the most gruelling examination before finally admitting it to the perfect structure.  However, it seemed no use to bore one’s employer with details such as these.

“I have been doing a little studying of late—­”

“Under excellent masters, it seems.  Now this phrase, ’the ultimate reproach and the final infamy”—­the Colonel unconsciously smacked his lips over it—­“why, sir, it sounds like one of my own.”

Queed started.

“If you must know, it is one of your own.  You used it on October 26, 1900, during, as you will recall, the closing days of the presidential campaign.”