raging a demon of surprising violence of deportment; it urged him to lay hold of some instrument of a rugged, murderous nature and assassinate Mr. Pat.  But higher up in him, in his head, there spoke the stronger voice of his reason.  While the demon screamed homicidally, reason coldly reminded the young man that not to save his life could he assassinate, or even hurt, Mr. Pat, and that the net result of another endeavor to do so would be merely a second mortifying atmospheric journey.  Was it not unreasonable for a man, in a hopeless attempt to gratify irrational passion, to take a step the sole and certain consequences of which would be a humiliating soaring and curveting through the air?

It was a terrible struggle, the marks of which broke out on the young man’s forehead in cold beads.  But he was a rationalist among rationalists, and in the end his reason subdued his demon.  Therefore, the little knot of linotypers and helpers who had stood wonderingly by while the two adversaries stared at each other, through a tense half-minute, now listened to the following dialogue:—­

“I believe I said that I would give you a good thrashing.  I now withdraw those words, for I find that I am unable to make them good.”

“I guess you ain’t—­what the divil did ye expect?  Me to sit back with me hands behind me and leave ye—­”

“I earnestly desire to thrash you, but it is plain to me that I am not, at present, in position to do so.”

“Fergit it!  What’s afther ye, Mr. Queed—?”

“To get in position to thrash you, would take me a year, two years, five years.  It is not—­no, it is not worth my time.”

“Well, who asked f’r any av your time?  But as f’r that, I’ll give ye your chance to get square—­”

“I suppose you feel yourself free now to take all sorts of detestable liberties with my articles?”

“Liberties—­what’s bitin’ ye, man?  Don’t I read revised proof on the leaded stuff every night, no matter what the rush is?  When did ye ever before catch me—?”

“Physically, you are my superior, but muscle counts for very little in this world, my man.  Morally, which is all that matters, I am your superior—­you know that, don’t you?  Be so good as to keep your disgusting vermin out of my articles in the future.”

He walked away with a face which gave no sign of his inner turmoil.  Mr. Pat looked after him, stirred and bewildered, and addressed his friends the linotypers angrily.

“Something loose in his belfry, as ye might have surmised from thim damfool tax-drools.”

For Mr. Pat was still another reader of the unanswerable articles, he being paid the sum of twenty-seven dollars per week to peruse everything that went into the Post, including advertisements of auction sales and for sealed bids.

Queed returned to his own office for his hat and coat.  Having heard his feet upon the stairs, Colonel Cowles called Out:—­