“At two o'clock,” persisted Merriwether Buck, “I am going to shoot myself.”
The reporter looked bored; his specialty was politics.
“Are you anybody in particular?” he asked, discouragingly.
“No,” confessed Merriwether Buck. It didn't seem to be worth while to mention that he was one of the Bucks of Bucktown, Merriwether County, Georgia.
“I thought,” said the reporter, with an air of rebuke, “that you said it was a good story.”
“I am, at least, a human being,” said Merriwether Buck, on the defensive.
“They're cheap, hereabout,” returned the other, in the manner of a person who has estimated a good many assorted lots.
“You are callous,” said Merriwether Buck. “Callous to the soul! What are you, but—but—Why, you are New York incarnate! That is what you are! And I think I will shoot you first!”
“I don't want to be a spoil sport,” said the reporter, “but I'm afraid I can't allow it. I have a rather important assignment.”
Merriwether played with the little automatic pistol in his pocket. It was not any regard for the consequences that deterred him from shooting the portly young man. But in his somewhat dizzy brain a fancy was taking shape; a whim worked in him. He drew his hand empty from the pocket, and that reporter came up out of the grave.