That afternoon, when the tempest in the collegiate teapot was storming at its merriest, West, being downtown on private business, chanced to drop in at the Post office, according to his frequent habit.  He found the sanctum under the guard of the young assistant editor.  The Colonel, in fact, had been sick in bed for four days, and in his absence, Queed was acting-editor and sole contributor of the leaded minion.  The two young men greeted each other pleasantly.

“I’m reading you every day,” said West, presently, “and, flattery and all that aside, I’ve been both surprised and delighted at the character of the work you’re doing.  It’s fully up to the best traditions of the Post, and that strikes me as quite a feat for a man of your years.”

Because he was pleased at this tribute, Queed answered briefly, and at once changed the subject.  But he did it maladroitly by expressing the hope that things were going well with Mr. West.

“Well, not hardly,” said West, and gave his pleasant laugh.  “You may possibly have noticed from our esteemed afternoon contemporary that I’m in a very pretty little pickle.  But by the way,” he added, with entire good humor, “the Post doesn’t appear to have noticed it after all.”

“No,” said Queed, slowly, not pretending to misunderstand.  He hesitated, a rare thing with him.  “The fact is I could not write what you would naturally wish to have written, and therefore I haven’t written anything at all.”

West threw up his hands in mock horror.  “Here’s another one!  Come on, fellers!  Kick him!—­he’s got no friends!  You know,” he laughed, “I remind myself of the man who stuck his head in at the teller’s window, wanting to have a check cashed.  The teller didn’t know him from Adam.  ‘Have you any friends here in the city?’ asked he.  ‘Lord, no!’ said the stranger; ‘I’m the weather man.’”

Queed smiled.

“And I was only trying in my poor way,” said West, mournfully, “to follow the advice that you, young man, roared at me for a column on the fatal morning.”

“I’ve regretted that,” said Queed.  “Though, of course, I never looked for any such developments as this.  I was merely trying to act on Colonel Cowles’s advice about always playing up local topics.  You are doubtless familiar with his dictum that the people are far more interested in a cat-fight at Seventh and Centre Streets than in the greatest exploits of science.”

West laughed and rose to go.  Then a good-natured thought struck him.  “Look here,” said he, “this must be a great load, with the Colonel away—­doing all of three columns a day by yourself.  How on earth do you manage it?”

“Well, I start work at eight o’clock in the morning.”

“And what time does that get you through?”

“Usually in time to get to press with it.”

“Oh, I say!  That won’t do at all.  You’ll break yourself down, playing both ends against the middle like that.  Let me help you out, won’t you?  Let me do something for you right now?”