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Bat Brydges's retina. The third newspaper office was the least easy for the handy man's tactics. The editor was an independent of the fiery order. Bat avoided the editor and tackled a young reporter at the noon hour. "What do you say to a spin in the 40 h. p. to-night?" he asked. "What's on?" The youth was reading an ink-smudged galley proof.
"What do you take the Senator for? He knows nothing about it; but it's in his constituency, and I guess his own paper should see that the account which goes in is straight." The news-editor hoisted his foot to the seat of a chair and stood racing his eyes through sheet after sheet of Brydges's copy. Bat lighted a cigar, put his hands in his pockets and pivoted on his heels.
In her bosom she fastened two innocent white roses from Walter Brydges's bouquet, arranging them with studious care very daintily before her mirror. She was always a woman. "Perhaps," she thought to herself, "for her lover's sake, my Dolly will kiss them. When she finds them lying on her dead mother's breast, my Dolly may kiss them."
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