Gibberts seized the poker as if it had been a weapon, and glared at the editor.
"I won't sit down, and I will make just as much noise as I want to," he roared. As he stood there defiantly, Shorely saw a gleam of insanity in his eyes.
"Oh, very well, then," said Shorely, continuing to read the story.
For a moment Gibberts stood grasping the poker by the middle, then he flung it with a clatter on the fender, and, sitting down, gazed moodily into the fire, without moving, until Shorely had turned the last page.
"Well," said Gibberts, rousing from his reverie, "what do you think of it?"
"It's a good story, Gibberts. All your stories are good," said the editor, carelessly.
Gibberts started to his feet, and swore.
"Do you mean to say," he thundered, "that you see nothing in that story different from any I or any one else ever wrote? Hang it, Shorely, you wouldn't know a good story if you met it coming up Fleet Street! Can't you see that story is written with a man's heart's blood?"
Shorely stretched out his legs and thrust his hands far down in his trousers' pockets.
"It may have been written as you say, although I thought you called my attention a moment ago to its type-written character."