With an ashen face of despair, the man obeyed. As he finished, he began to sag at the joints. Slowly he slackened down until he was on his knees, an abject spectacle of disgust.
“Stand up,” ordered Waldemar.
“Liss’n; liss’n t’ me,” moaned the man. “I’ll make it three thousand. Fi’ thou—”
“Stand up!”
The editor’s hearty grip on his coat collar heaved the creature to his feet. For a moment he struggled, panting, then spun, helpless and headlong from the room, striking heavily against the passage wall outside. There was a half-choked groan; then his footsteps slumped away into silence.
“Ugh!” grunted Waldemar. “Come back, Jones.”
Average Jones reentered. “Have you no curiosity in your composition?” he asked.
“Not much—having been reared in the newspaper business.”
Stooping, Average Jones picked up the glasses which the man had thrown on the floor and examined them carefully. “Rather a fine instrument,” he observed. “Marked N. K. I think I’ll follow up the owner.”
“You’ll never find him now. He has too much start.”