Mr. Bodery and his colleagues were in the habit of keeping at the office a small bag, containing the luggage necessary for a few nights in case of their being suddenly called away. This expedient was due to Christian Vellacott's forethought.
The editor now proceeded to stuff into his bag sundry morning newspapers and a large cigar case. Telegraph forms, pen, ink, and foolscap paper were already there.
“I say, Bodery,” said the sub-editor with grave familiarity, “it seems to me that you are taking much too serious a view of this matter. Vellacott is as wide awake as any man, and it always struck me that he was very well able to take care of himself.”
“I have a wholesome dread of men who use religion as a means of justification. A fanatic is always dangerous.”
“A sincere fanatic,” suggested the sub-editor.
“Exactly so; and a sincere fanatic in the hands of an agitator is the very devil. That is whence these fellows got their power. Half of them are fanatics and the other half hypocrites.”
Mr. Bodery had now completed his preparations, and he held out his plump hand, which the subeditor grasped.
“I hope,” said the latter, “that you will find Vellacott at the station to meet you—ha, ha!”
“I hope so.”
“If,” said Mr. Morgan, following the editor to the door—“if he turns up here, I will wire to Carew and to you, care of the station-master.”