The blinders of self-esteem having thus been torn from the eyes of the dramatic editor, that gentleman developed a decided distaste for further discussion of the subject and immured himself in his cramped office where he devoted himself to bitter rumination. Throughout the day his fellow laborers in the field of journalism seemed to take a malicious delight in playfully taunting him. On the way home for dinner he had met the dramatic editor of the rival Inquirer and that worthy had added to his fury by remarking, with a twinkle in his eye: “That was a mighty interesting symposium on Stephano you ran this morning, Jenkins.” At dinner he startled his sedate and shrinking wife by launching into a profane and pungent diatribe on the subject of press agents and announced his determination to start a nation-wide movement for their suppression and final extermination. He declared, in loud and ringing tones, that nothing but total annihilation of the entire tribe would at all satisfy his wishes in the matter. The sting of the affair still rankled in his breast when he came down to the office on the following morning. When Nathan, the managing editor, looked in on him he was viciously assailing the dramatic page of a New York Sunday newspaper with a large pair of shears and wishing for a moment, as he clipped out items of theatrical information, that it was one Jimmy Martin instead of an innocent sheet of paper that he was attacking. “Say, Jenkins,” Nathan remarked casually, “I’ve got a little request to make of your Miss Slosson who’s running this damned pie contest,—it closes today, you know,—is getting swamped downstairs and has sent out an S.O.S. to this floor for assistance. There’s nobody around yet but you. I wish you’d drop down there for an hour or so and give her a hand. Just as soon as one of the cubs show up I’ll send him down to relieve you.” E. Cartwright reeled under this final blow to his dignity. The ends of his iron-grey walrus moustache dropped a full half inch as he looked up, bewildered. “Pie contest—Miss Slosson,” he mumbled. “What could I possibly do in connection with that, or with her?” “Oh, just help her and her assistant unwrap and tag some of the entries,” replied Nathan in a matter-of-fact tone, as he turned quickly to suppress a smile and hurried out of the tiny room. E. Cartwright uttered a low moan expressive of profound and abysmal woe as he slipped on his coat and prepared to descend to Miss Slosson’s department. * * * * * Jimmy and his fellow conspirator found Miss Slosson in her office almost completely hidden by parcels containing pies. They did not notice E. Cartwright at first. That high authority on the spoken and written drama was in the throes of unutterable and indescribable mental anguish at a table fifty feet away untying innumerable bundles and humming a hymn of hate directed at newspaper work in general and soulless managing editors in particular.