“I say, old man, what did you have for breakfast?” “Look here, Jimmy, I’m inclined to think I’ve struck a snag. It never occurred to me before.” “Well, don’t let it occur to you again. Think of old Dumas; I’ve heard he put his name to sixty volumes in one year. Has that done him any harm?” Taggart rumpled his hair, reddish and rather stiff. “Damn!” he said. Counter laughed. “You get a fixed screw for doing what you’re told. Why worry? Papers must be sold. Georgie Grebe--that’s some stunt.” “Blast Georgie Grebe!” He took his hat and went out; a prolonged whistle followed him. All next day he spent doing other jobs, trying to persuade himself that he was a crank, and gingerly feeling the mouths of journalists. All he got was: Fuss about nothing! What was the matter with devilling? With life at such pressure, what else could you have? But with the best intentions he could not persuade himself to go on with the thoughts of Georgie Grebe. And he remembered suddenly that his father had changed the dogmas of his religion at forty-five, and thereby lost a cure of souls. He was very unhappy; it was like discovering that he had inherited tuberculosis. On Friday he was sent for by the chief. “Morning, Taggart; I’m just back. Look here, this leader for to-morrow--it’s nothing but a string of statements. Where’s my style?” Taggart shifted his considerable weight from foot to foot. “Well, sir,” he said, “I thought perhaps you’d like to put that in yourself, for a change. The facts are all right.” The chief stared. “My good fellow, do you suppose I’ve got time for that? Anybody could have written this; I can’t sign it as it stands. Tone it up.” Taggart took the article from the chief’s hand. “I don’t know that I can,” he said; “I’m----” and stopped. The chief said kindly: “Ill?” Taggart disclaimed. “Private trouble?” “No.” “Well, get on with it, then. How’s the Grebe article turned out?” “It hasn’t.” “How do you mean?” Taggart felt his body stiffening. “Fact is, I can’t write it.” “Good gracious, man, any drivel will do, so long as it’s got a flavour of some sort to carry the name.” Taggart swallowed. “That’s it. Is it quite playing the game with the Public, sir?” The chief seemed to loom larger suddenly. “I don’t follow you, Taggart.” Taggart blurted out: “I don’t want to write anyone else’s stuff in future, unless it’s just news or facts.” The chief’s face grew very red. “I pay you to do certain work. If you don’t care to carry out instructions, we can dispense with your services. What’s the matter with you, Taggart?” Taggart replied with a wry smile: “Suffering from a fit of conscience, sir. Isn’t it a matter of commercial honesty?” The chief sat back in his swivel chair and gazed at him for quite twenty seconds. “Well,” he said at last in an icy voice, “I have never been so insulted. Good-morning! You are at liberty.” Taggart laid down the sheets of paper, walked stiffly to the door, and turned.