“The sport of kings-maintained on the spoils of clerks,” retorted Average Jones. “‘To improve the breed of horses,’ if you please! To make thieves of men and harlots of women, because Carroll Morrison must have his gambling-game dividends! And now he has our ‘representative’ legislature working for him to that honorable end!” “Man to see you, Mr. Waldemar,” said an office boy, appearing at the door. “Too late,” grunted the editor. “He says it’s very particular, sir, and to tell you it’s something Mr. Morrison is interested in.” “Morrison, eh? All right. Just step into the inner office, will you, Jones? Leave the door open. There might be something interesting.” Hardly had Average Jones found a chair in the darkened office when the late caller appeared. He was middle-aged, pursy, and dressed with slap-dash ostentation. His face was bloated and seared with excesses. But it was not intoxication that sweated on his forehead and quivered in his jaw. It was terror. He slumped into the waiting chair and mouthed mutely at the editor. “Well?” The bullet-like snap of the interrogation stung the man into babbling speech. “’S like this, Misser Wald’mar. ’S like this. Y-y-yuh see, ’s like this. Fer Gawsake, kill out an ad for me!” “What? In to-morrow’s paper? Nonsense! You’re too late, even if I wished to do it.” The visitor stood up and dug both hands into his side pockets. He produced, first a binocular, which, with a snarl, he flung upon the floor. Before it had stopped bumping, there fluttered down upon the seat of his chair a handful of greenbacks. Another followed, and another, and another. The bills toppled and spread, and some of them slid to the floor. Still the man delved. “There!” he panted at last. “Money talks. There’s the stuff. Count it. Eighteen hundred if there’s a dollar. More likely two thou. If that ain’t enough, make your own price. I don’t care what it is. Make it, Misser. Put a price on it.” There was something loathsome and obscene in the creature’s gibbering flux of words. The editor leaned forward. “Bribery, eh?” he inquired softly. The man flinched from the tone. “It ain’t bribery, is it, to ast you to rout out jus’ one line from an ad an’ pay you for the trouble. My own ad, too. If it runs, it’s my finish. I was nutty when I wrote it. Fer Gawsake, Misser—” “Stop it! You say Morrison sent you here?” “No, sir. Not exac’ly. ’S like this, M’ Wald’mar. I hadda get to you some way. It’s important to Misser Morrison, too. But he don’t know I come. He don’t know nothing about it. Oh, Gaw! If he finds out—” “Put that money back in your pockets.” With an ashen face of despair, the man obeyed. As he finished, he began to sag at the joints. Slowly he slackened down until he was on his knees, an abject spectacle of disgust. “Stand up,” ordered Waldemar. “Liss’n; liss’n t’ me,” moaned the man. “I’ll make it three thousand. Fi’ thou—” “Stand up!”