“Yes. You are at Mr. Montrose Clark’s cottage.... No; you certainly can’t go home. Don’t be a jackass!... No; the paper has n’t gone up. It’s doing very well without you.... No; of course you’re not going down to the office. Don’t be a fool!... Heart? No; it isn’t your heart. It’s nerves. Overwork. That’s all. Don’t be a ninny.... Certainly you’ll be all right. In a few days, if you’ll behave yourself and not act like a blithering simpleton.... Drink this.” What seemed to Jeremy so long and uncertain a period was, in reality, only a little over a week. Came a day when the Montrose Clarks sent him out for a ride with their chauffeur, otherwise unattended, and he prevailed upon that guileless youth to take him to the office. “Don’t wait. I’ll telephone,” said he, and made for his den. At first, as he entered, he felt a qualm of nausea. This passed, to be succeeded by a dull languor. He shook this off and, finding that wheels no longer revolved within his head when he tried to think, he decided that he was fit for work. Pursuing this theory, he settled to his work-table when the door burst open and Andrew Galpin rushed in. “Where the devil--” he began and started back as from an apparition. “For the love of _Mike!_” he shouted. “Where did you come from?” “The Montrose Clark cottage.” “Go back! Get out! You ought to be in bed.” “I have been. I’m tired of it.” “What would Doc Summerfield say?” “The usual thing: Drink this.’ What do you suppose he’d say to you?” The general manager was red, perspiring, and disheveled, and there was a vague, wild, and incomprehensible gleam in his eye. “Me? What’s he got to do with me?” “How do I know? You don’t look--well, normal.” “Don’t I!” retorted his subordinate with some heat. “Then just lemme tell you that I’m the only normal gink left in the business. I’m sane; _that’s_ what’s the matter with _me!_ That’s what makes me look so queer and feel so lonely.” “You’d have to prove it to me,” retorted his chief. “That’s because you’ve got it, too. Only yours takes a different form from the rest. Go back to bed, Boss. But first, where’s that file of special contracts?” “Try the cabinet there. What do you want of ’em?” Galpin found the documents, and turned upon Jeremy. “Boss, this man’s town had gone batty. Plumb bugs! Hopeless case.” “You know what happens to a man who discovers that everybody else is crazy, Andy.” “It’s gone completely nuts over The Guardian,” pursued the other, ignoring the intimation. “We’re a hobby. An obsession. A fad! A fashion! A killing! A--” “What’s got you, Andy?” asked the editor anxiously. “Come down to earth.” “Can’t! I’m a balloon. Watch me soar!” The usually stolid manager performed a bacchanalian fling. “Contracts!” he panted. “Reams of ’em! Money! Gobs of it! Circulation! Going uh-uh-up! Whee!” “Andy, I’m not feeling very husky; but in a moment I shall throw you down and sit on your neck.”