“I fancy I should like to be an editor,” he said. “The profession is not without dignity and scholarly qualities----” “Scholarly fiddlesticks!” Again he paid her no compliment of attention. “Why shouldn’t one be selfish? What does it matter? What does anything matter? Here we are in this world, rabbits caught in a trap. We can’t escape. We’re here, and the only way to get out of the trap is to die. We’re here with the trap fastened to our foot, waiting to be killed. That’s all. So what does anything matter except to get through it somehow. Nobody can _do_ anything. The greatest man who ever lived hasn’t done a thing but live and die. Selfish? Of course I’m selfish. Nothing interests me but me. I want to stay in the trap with as little pain and trouble as I can manage.... Everything and everybody is futile.... Now you can let me be an editor or you can go along about your business and leave me alone.” “You have a sweet philosophy,” she said, cuttingly. “If that is all your education has given you, the most ignorant scavenger on the city streets is wiser and better and more valuable to the world than you. I’m ashamed of you.” “Scavenger!...” His eyes snapped behind his beetle glasses and he frowned upon her terribly. “Now I’m going to be an editor--the silly kind of an editor silly people like. Just to show you I can do it better than they can. I’ll write better pieces about Farmer Tubbs painting his barn red, and better editorials about the potato crop. I’m a better man than any of them, with a better brain and a better education--and I’ll use my superiority to be a better ass than any of them.” “Do you know,” she said, “you’ll never amount to a row of pins until you really find a desire to be of use to the world? If you try to help the world, sincerely and honestly, the world finds it out and helps you--and loves you.... Don’t you want people to like you?” “No.” “Well, when you can come to me and tell me you do want people to like you, I’ll have some hopes of you.... Report at the office at one o’clock. You’re hired.” She walked away from him rapidly, and he stood peering after her with a lost, bewildered air. “What an extraordinary young woman!” he said to himself. Carmel seated herself at her desk to think. Her eyes glanced downward at the fresh blotter she had put in place the day before, and there they paused, for upon its surface lay a grimy piece of paper upon which was printed with a lead pencil: Don’t meddle with Sheriff Churchill or he’ll have company. That was all, no signature, nothing but the message and the threat. Carmel bit her lip. “Tubal,” she called. “Yes, Lady.” “Who has been in the office--inside the railing?” “Hain’t been a soul in this mornin’,” he said--“not that I seen.”