Mr. Pat was at once chagrined and incensed. He happened, further, to be in most sensitive vein as regards little oversights in his department. His professional pride was tortured with the recollection that, only three days before, he had permitted the Post to refer to old Major Lamar as "that immortal veterinary," and upon the Post's seeking to retrieve itself the next day, at the Major's insistent demand, he had fallen into another error. The hateful words had come out as "immoral veteran."
"Now look here!" said he, "there's nothing to be gained talking that way. Ye've got me—I'll give ye that! But what do ye expect?—eighty columns of type a night and niver a little harmless slip—?"
"You must be taught to make no slips with my articles. I'm going to punish you for that—"
"What-a-at! Say that agin!"
"Stand out here—I am going to give you a good thrashing. I shall whip ..."
Another man would have laughed heartily and told the young man to trot away while the trotting was good. He was nearly half a foot shorter than Mr. Pat, and his face advertised his unmartial customs. But Mr. Pat had the swift fierce passions of his race; and it became to him an unendurable thing to be thus bearded by a little spectacled person in his own den. He saw red; and out shot his good right arm.
The little Doctor proved a good sailer, but bad at making a landing. His course was arched, smooth, and graceful, but when he stopped, he did it so bluntly that men working two stories below looked up to ask each other who was dead. Typesetters left their machines and hurried up, fearing that here was a case for ambulance or undertaker. But they saw the fallen editor pick himself up, with a face of stupefied wonder, and immediately start back toward the angry proof-reader.
Mr. Pat lowered redly on his threshhold. "G'awn now! Get away!"
Queed came to a halt a pace away and stood looking at him.
"G'awn, I tell ye! I don't want no more of your foolin'!"