"I am, aunt. Well, the duties of the Thrillometer are very simple. Directly a piece of news comes in, it is the place of one of the Sub-Editors to hurry to the Thrillometer's room and read it to him. I have to do this."
"Poor boy. You are sadly overworked, I fear."
"Yes, aunt. And while I read I watch his face, Long study has told me exactly what degree of interest is excited within him by the announcement. I know instantly whether his expression means 'phenomenal' or only 'remarkable,' whether 'distressing' or only 'sad,' whether——"
"Is there so much difference between 'distressing' and 'sad,' Horace?"
"Oh, yes, aunt. A suicide in Half Moon Street is 'distressing'; in the City Road it is only 'sad.' Again, a raid on a club in Whitechapel is of no account; but a raid on a West-End club is worth three lines of large type in the bill, above Fry's innings."
"Do you mean a club in Soho when you say West-End?"
"Yes, aunt, as a rule."
"But why do you call that the West-End?"
"That was the Thrillometer's doing, aunt. He fell asleep over a club raid, and a very good one too, when I said it was in Soho; but when I told him of the next—also in Soho, chiefly Italian waiters—and said it was in the West-End, his eyes nearly came out of his head. So you see how useful the Thrillometer can be."
"Most ingenious, Horace. Was this your idea?"