"I always buy your paper my dear Horace," said the old lady, "although there is much in it I cannot approve of. But there is one thing that puzzles me extremely."
"Yes, aunt?" said the Sub-Editor meekly, as he sipped his tea.
"Why, I notice that the contents bill invariably has one word calculated to stimulate the morbid curiosity of the reader. An adjective."
"Circulation depends upon adjectives," said the Sub-Editor.
"I don't think I object to them," the old lady replied; "but what I want you to tell me is how you choose them. How do you decide whether an occurrence is 'remarkable' or 'extraordinary,' 'astounding' or 'exciting,' 'thrilling' or 'alarming,' 'sensational' or merely 'strange,' 'startling' or 'unique'? What tells you which word to use?"
"Well, aunt, we have a system to indicate the adjective to a nicety; but——"
"My dear Horace, I will never breathe a word. You should know that. No one holds the secrets of the press more sacred than I."
The Sub-Editor settled himself more comfortably in his chair.
"You see, aunt, the great thing in an evening paper is human interest. What we want to get is news to hit the man-in-the-street. Everything that we do is done for the man-in-the-street. And therefore we keep safely locked up in a little room a tame man of this description. He may not be much to look at, but his sympathies are right, unerringly right. He sits there from nine till six, and has things to eat now and then. We call him the Thrillometer."
"How wonderful! How proud you should be Horace, to be a part of this mighty mechanism, the press."