gerous flattery of older men, and with less pleasure of the editorial which it was his immediate business to write. His brisk, crisp chief, Mr. Blankinship, came in for a moment, walking testily and looking like the deuce.
"So you've showed up, Aladdin, have you?" he said. "That's young blood. If any question of politics—I mean policy—arises, I leave it absolutely to you. I'm going back to bed. Can't you stop smoking that rotten cigar?"
Aladdin laughed aloud, and Mr. Blankinship endeavored to smile.
"Somewhere," he said, "in this transcendentally beautiful continent, Aladdin, there may be some one that feels worse than I do, but I doubt it." He turned to go.
"Won't Mr. Orde be here either?" said Aladdin.
"No; he's home in bed. You're editor-in-chief and everything else for the day, see? And I wish I was dead." Mr. Blankinship nodded, very slightly, for it hurt, and went out.
