“Hardly worth while.  Decent people don’t read the ‘Clarion’ anyway, so it can’t hurt much.  It’s best just to ignore such things.”

“Something ought to be done about it,” declared Hal angrily.

Stuffing the paper into his pocket he took his wrath out into the open air.  Hard and fast he walked, but the farther he went the hotter burned his ire.

There was in Harrington Surtaine a streak of the romantic.  His inner world was partly made up of such chimerical notions as are bred in a lively mind, not in very close touch with the world of actualities, by a long course of novel-reading and theater-going.  Deep within him stirred a conviction that there was a proper and suitable, nay, an almost obligatory, method made and provided for just such crises as this:  something that a keen-spirited and high-bred youth ought to do about it.  Suddenly it came to him.  Young Surtaine returned home with his resolve taken.  In the morning he would fare forth, a modern knight redressing human wrongs, and lick the editor of the “Clarion.”

Overnight young Mr. Surtaine revised his project.  Horsewhipping would be no more than the offending editor deserved.  However, he should have his chance.  Let him repent and retract publicly, and the castigation should be remitted.  Forthwith the avenger sat him down to a task of composition.  The apology which, after sundry corrections and emendations, he finally produced in fair copy, was not alone complete and explicit:  it was fairly abject.  In such terms might a confessed and hopeless criminal cast himself desperately upon the mercy of the court.  Previsioning this masterly apologium upon the first page of the morrow’s “Clarion,”—­or perhaps at the top of the editorial columns,—­its artificer thrilled with the combined pride of authorship and poetic justice.

On the walls of the commodious room which had been set aside in the Surtaine mansion for the young master’s study hung a plaited dog-whip.  The agent of just reprisals curled this neatly inside his overcoat pocket and set forth upon his errand.  It was then ten o’clock in the morning.

Now, in hunting the larger fauna of the North American continent with a dog-whip, it is advantageous to have some knowledge of the game’s habits.  Mr. Harrington Surtaine’s first error lay in expecting to find the editorial staff of a morning newspaper on duty in the early forenoon.  So much a sweeper, emerging from a pile of dust, communicated to him across a railing, further volunteering that three o’clock would be a well-chosen hour for return, as the boss would be less pressed upon by engagements then, perhaps, than at other hours.

In the nature of things, the long delay might well have cooled the knightliest ardor.  But as he departed from the office, Mr. Surtaine took with him a copy of that day’s “Clarion” for perusal, and in its pages discovered a “follow-up” of the previous day’s outrage.  Back home he went, and added to his literary effort a few more paragraphs wherein the editorial “we” more profoundly cringed, cowered, and crawled in penitential abasement.  Despite the relish of the words, Hal rather hoped that the editor would refuse to publish his masterpiece.  He itched to use that whip.