"Great Heavens, no!" I replied.
"It is lucky for you, Sir; he's got an air-gun, and winged two Interviewers to-day, and shot one in the hat."
"I am a friend of Mr. St. Barbe's." I explained, scarcely audible amidst the yells of that man of letters.
"He's awful bad to-day, Sir, assaulted a parcels-delivery man, who was too heavy for him."
So speaking, the maid led me to St. Barbe's study. He was now quiet, and only groaning softly as he reposed on the sofa; the fragments of furniture and the torn letters which covered the floor, proved, however, that the crisis had been severe, for a man who likes a quiet neighbourhood. I felt his pulse, injected morphine, and asked him how he did?
"Better," said St. Barbe, feebly. "I've been clearing them out."
"Clearing what out?" I asked.
"Presentation copies of books, from the authors," he said; and added, "and the devils of publishers."
At this moment the postman knocked, and the maid brought in some letters with an air of anxiety.
St. Barbe tore the envelopes open, "There, and there, and there!" he cried, thrusting them into my hands, while his features bore a satanic expression of hatred and contempt.