"Mrs. Mac Elegant be shot!" I exclaimed. I used to be sweet on Mrs. Mac Elegant, and Barescythe has a disagreeable way of referring to that delicate fact. "It was not for such as she I wrote. I sought to touch that finer pulse of humanity which throbs the wide world over. The sequel will prove whether or not I have failed." Barry laughed at my ill-concealed chagrin. "Barry," said I, carelessly, meditating a bit of revenge, and unfolding at the same time a copy of the 'Morning Glory,' "did you write the book criticisms in to-day's paper?" "Yes," returned Barry, coloring slightly. "They are very fine." Barry's blood went up to his forehead. "So consistent," I continued, "with what you have been saying. I have neither read '_The Scavenger's Daughter_,' nor '_The Life of Obadiah Zecariah Jinkings_;' but, judging from the opinion here expressed, I take them to be immortal works. I could never be led to think so by reading the extracts you have made from the volumes, for the prose is badly constructed. Indeed, Barry, here's a sentence which lacks a personal pronoun and a verb." "I see what you are aiming at," replied Barescythe, sharply. "You twit me with praising these books so extravagantly. I grant you that worse trash was never in type, (DAISY is not printed yet, you know,) but will you allow me to ask you a question?" "_Si usted gusta_, my dear fellow." "Do you think that Gabriel Ravel, at Niblo's, turns spasmodic summersets on a chalked rope for the sake of any peculiar pleasure derived therefrom?" "Why, Barry, I can scarcely imagine anything more unpleasant than to be turned upside down, fifteen feet from maternal earth, with an undeniable chance of breaking one's neck, on a four-inch rope. But why do you ask?" "M. Ravel distorts himself for a salary, and no questions asked. I do the same. I throw literary summersets for a golden consideration. It is a very simple arrangement"--here Barescythe drew a diagram on the palm of his hand--"Messrs. Printem & Sellem (my thumb) give us, 'The Morning Glory,' (my forefinger) costly advertisements, and I, Barescythe, (the little finger) am expected to laud all the books they publish." Out of respect to Barescythe, I restrained my laughter. He went on, with a ruthful face: "Here is '_The Life of Jinkings_'--the life of a puppy!--an individual of whom nobody ever heard till now, a very clever, harmless, good man _in his way_, no doubt,--the big gun of a little village, but no more worthy of a biography than a printer's devil!" With which words, Barescythe hit an imaginary Mr. Jinkings in the stomach with evident satisfaction.