have ideas, and had doubtless been at the bottom of my proposing to Mr. Pinhorn that I should lay my lean hands on Neil Paraday. I remember that he looked at me first as if he had never heard of this celebrity, who indeed at that moment was by no means in the middle of the heavens; and even when I had knowingly explained he expressed but little confidence in the demand for any such matter. When I had reminded him that the great principle on which we were supposed to work was just to create the demand we required, he considered a moment and then rejoined: "I see; you want to write him up."
"Call it that if you like."
"And what's your inducement?"
"Bless my soul—my admiration!"
Mr. Pinhorn pursed up his mouth. "Is there much to be done with him?"
"Whatever there is, we should have it all to ourselves, for he hasn't been touched."
This argument was effective, and Mr. Pinhorn responded: "Very well, touch him." Then he added: "But where can you do it?"
"Under the fifth rib!" I laughed.
Mr. Pinhorn stared. "Where's that?"
"You want me to go down and see him?" I inquired, when I had enjoyed his visible search for this obscure suburb.
"I don't 'want' anything—the proposal's your own. But you must remember that that's the way we do things now," said Mr. Pinhorn, with another dig at Mr. Deedy.
Unregenerate as I was, I could read the queer implications of this speech. The present owner's superior virtue as well as his deeper craft spoke in his reference to the late editor as one of that baser sort who deal in false representations. Mr. Deedy
would
