The attorney seated himself on the editor's desk, pushing a pile of papers out of his way. “That's all right, Jones,” he said. “That's for the”--he waved his hand toward the window--“for the fellow citizens; for the populace. This is between ourselves.” “I'd like to,” said Jones, “but really, I can't say anything about it. I promised faithfully I would not betray my contributor's confidence.” “Now, do I look so green as that?” asked Toole. “Nonsense! Doc Weaver wrote that rot.” He smiled. “He spread himself, didn't he?” The editor remained motionless. “I have nothing whatever to say,” he remarked, noncommittally. “Well, I have!” cried the attorney. “I'll tell you that it is poor work for you to steal my thunder and attempt to use it without consulting me! It is poor work, and mean work. You want to be boss of this party in Kilo county, that's what you want. And you haven't the capacity. You have proved it right here, right here in this silly sheet of yours. You hit on a big thing, and you spoil it. You are so anxious that Toole shall get no credit that you rush it into print and make a fizzle of it. I know who the traitors to the party are--you are one. Doc Weaver with his elegant style and his Shakespeare is another. And that miserable intermeddling little book agent is another. You make me sick.” The editor stood like a statue, and his face was as white. The attorney dropped his words slowly from lips that still wore the tantalizing smile. “The childishness amuses me,” said the attorney. “It makes me smile. Why didn't you give names, since you had them? Why didn't you tell it all, and do the party some good, as well as doing me some harm, if that was what you were after--and I don't know what you were after if it wasn't that? Why don't you get a schoolboy to edit your paper for you?” T. J. ground his nails into the palms of his hands. He meant to retain possession of his temper, but it was boiling within. He said nothing as the attorney indolently arose from his seat on the desk; he was resolved to do nothing, but when the attorney brushed against him in passing, turning his superior smile full in his face, he raised his arm. The next moment the two men were lying beside the press, struggling and gasping, locked fast and fighting for advantage, legs intertwined and each grasping the other by a wrist. The editor was on top, but the heavier attorney was working with the energy of hate, and as they panted and struggled the door opened and Eliph' Hewlitt entered.