“I shouldn't be surprised if that impudent little witch herself had put him up to it. She's capable of it,” said Bartley, fumbling aimlessly about on his table, in his wrath, without looking at Bird. “It's a lie!” said Bird. Bartley started as if the other had struck him, and as he glared at Bird the anger went out of his face for pure amazement. “Are you out of your mind, Henry?” he asked calmly. “Perhaps you're drunk too, this morning. The Devil seems to have got into pretty much everybody.” “It's a lie!” repeated the boy, while the tears sprang to his eyes. “She's as good a girl as Marcia Gaylord is, any day!” “Better go away, Henry,” said Bartley, with a deadly sort of gentleness. “I'm going away,” answered the boy, his face twisted with weeping. “I've done my last day's work for _you_.” He pulled down his shirt-sleeves, and buttoned them at the wrists, while the tears ran out over his face,--helpless tears, the sign of his womanish tenderness, his womanish weakness. Bartley continued to glare at him. “Why, I do believe you're in love with her yourself, you little fool!” “Oh, I've _been_ a fool!” cried Bird. “A fool to think as much of you as I always have,--a fool to believe that you were a gentleman, and wouldn't take a mean advantage. I was a fool to suppose you wanted to do her any good, when you came praising and flattering her, and turning her head!” “Well, then,” said Bartley with harsh insolence, “don't be a fool any longer. If you're in love with her, you haven't any quarrel with me, my boy. She flies at higher game than humble newspaper editors. The head of Willett's lumbering gang is your man; and so you may go and tell that old sot, her father. Why, Henry! You don't mean to say you care anything for that girl?” “And do you mean to say you haven't done everything you could to turn her head since she's been in this office? She used to like me well enough at school.” All men are blind and jealous children alike, when it comes to question of a woman between them, and this poor boy's passion was turning him into a tiger. “Don't come to _me_ with your lies, any more!” Here his rage culminated, and with a blind cry of “Ay!” he struck the paper which he had kept in his hand into Bartley's face. The demons, whatever they were, of anger, remorse, pride, shame, were at work in Bartley's heart too, and he returned the blow as instantly as if Bird's touch had set the mechanism of his arm in motion. In contempt of the other's weakness he struck with the flat of his hand; but the blow was enough. Bird fell headlong, and the concussion of his head upon the floor did the rest. He lay senseless. VII.