feed the flames with them, and you shall stir them with the poker. Or we can do it up in a parcel with some good big stones and sink. it over Chelsea Bridge. Or we can"
"No, Dunkle," the Archdeacon interrupted, "you're on the wrong tack, my boy, entirely. I have written this story, and I have got to see it in print. I have simply got to. You, too, are an author. You understand how it is with me. Supposing anyone were to suggest to you that you should burn or drown one of your lyrics."
"Forgive me, Archdeacon," said Dunkle stiffly, "but my lyrics are not in question here. It is only your novel that we are considering. Of course, if you are resolved to have the thing published, there's no more to be said. But if you can't publish it either anonymously or under
