“——'public, there remains but one end,—the oblivion that is preceded by toleration and cenotaphed with contempt. From that fate Mr. Heldar has yet to prove himself out of danger.”
“Wow—wow—wow—wow—wow!” said Dick, profanely. “It's a clumsy ending and vile journalese, but it's quite true. And yet,”—he sprang to his feet and snatched at the manuscript,—“you scarred, deboshed, battered old gladiator! you're sent out when a war begins, to minister to the blind, brutal, British public's bestial thirst for blood. They have no arenas now, but they must have special correspondents. You're a fat gladiator who comes up through a trap-door and talks of what he's seen. You stand on precisely the same level as an energetic bishop, an affable actress, a devastating cyclone, or—mine own sweet self. And you presume to lecture me about my work! Nilghai, if it were worth while I'd caricature you in four papers!”
The Nilghai winced. He had not thought of this.
“As it is, I shall take this stuff and tear it small—so!” The manuscript fluttered in slips down the dark well of the staircase. “Go home, Nilghai,” said Dick; “go home to your lonely little bed, and leave me in peace. I am about to turn in till to morrow.”
“Why, it isn't seven yet!” said Torpenhow, with amazement.
“It shall be two in the morning, if I choose,” said Dick, backing to the studio door. “I go to grapple with a serious crisis, and I shan't want any dinner.”
The door shut and was locked.
“What can you do with a man like that?” said the Nilghai.
“Leave him alone. He's as mad as a hatter.”
At eleven there was a kicking on the studio door. “Is the Nilghai with you still?” said a voice from within. “Then tell him he might have condensed the whole of his lumbering nonsense into an epigram: 'Only the free are bond, and only the bond are free.' Tell him he's an idiot, Torp, and tell him I'm another.”