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"Which same," allowed Handsome, "shorely's a most painful, not to say humiliatin' state o' things." And then to the Girl he whispered: "It's up to you make a holy show of 'im." The Girl laughed. "Me waltz? Me?" she cried, answering Johnson at last. "Oh, I can't waltz but I can polky." Once more Johnson bent his tall figure to the ground, and said: "Then may I have the pleasure of the next polka?"
He flung on his coat, and rushed into the street. Calling a hansom, he said "Drive to Kidner's Inn as quickly as you can. No. 15." Once there, he sprang up the steps two at a time, and knocked at Gibberts' door. The novelist allowed himself the luxury of a "man," and it was the "man" who answered Shorely's imperious knock. "Where's Gibberts?" "He's just gone, sir." "Gone where?"
Shorely's theory was that the public was a fool, and didn't know the difference. Some of the greatest journalistic successes in London proved the fact, he claimed, yet the Sponge frequently bought stories from well-known authors, and bragged greatly about it. Shorely's table was littered with manuscripts, but the attention of the great editor was not upon them.
The man who answered Shorely's imperious summons to the door was surprised to find a wild-eyed, unkempt, bedraggled individual, who looked like a lunatic or a tramp. "Has Mr. Bromley Gibberts arrived yet?" he asked, without preliminary talk. "Yes, sir," answered the man. "Is he in his room?" "No, sir. He has just come down, after dressing, and is in the drawing- room.
Now, you read it while I wait. Here it is, typewritten, at one-and-three a thousand words, all to save your blessed eyesight." Shorely took the manuscript and lit the gas, for it was getting dark. Gibberts sat down awhile, but soon began to pace the room, much to Shorely's manifest annoyance. Not content with this, he picked up the poker and noisily stirred the fire.
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