"Hold on a moment!" Henry cried. "Let me kick this fellow into the street."
"Nothing rash," said Witherspoon, putting out his hand. "Sit down, Henry. It will be all right. It's something you don't understand." And speaking to the visitor, he added: "Send me your rates."
"I have them here, sir," he replied, shying out of Henry's reach. He handed a card to Witherspoon.
"Let me see, now. Will half a column for a year be sufficient?"
"Well, that's rather a small ad, sir."
Henry got up again. "I think I'd better kick him into the street."
"No, no; sit down there. Let me manage this. Here." The blackmailer had retreated to the door. "You go back to your editor and tell him that I will put in a column for one year. Wait. Has anybody seen this?" he added, holding up the proof-slip.
"Nobody, sir, and I will have the type distributed as soon as I get back."
"See that you do. Tell Brooks; he will send you the copy. Now get out. Infamous scoundrel!" he said when the fellow was gone. "But don't say anything about it at home, for it really amounts to nothing."
He tore the proof-slip into small fragments and threw them into the spittoon.