"Steel's greatest feat has been to assault his wife in the street while drunk (that's Steel, not the wife, I mean, who was lushing), and get run in; but a word from 'Puggie' [Mr. Albert Scriven, the chief reporter, so called by reason of his physical appearance], who happened to be at the police station at the time, put the matter right, and 'Puggie' took our warrior to his ''appy little 'ome.' It fell to my lot to vamp up the usual editorial cackle myself that night, but I've got to help the beauty most nights, as he doesn't like work. Jones knows of his little exploits, but does nothing. He's got him cheap, and that's enough for him. Besides, nobody outside the office--and nobody in it, for that matter--would believe that Steel was editor of the paper, so Jones swaggers about the town, and has taken to describing himself as 'managing editor.' Oh, we enjoy life here! there's a lot of fun in the game. Steel wonders how the paper lived through the editorship of 'a literary ass.' He isn't nuts on literature; but with a pair of scissors, some gum, and a pencil, the Johnnie can knock out leaders while you cough, and the joke is nobody seems to be a bit the worse. Hope you don't mind my telling you this; but really, do you think anybody reads leaders? I hope they don't read mine. "The _Leader_ appeared four hours late yesterday. What do you think of that? Jones again. He's a treat. A cog-wheel of the Hoe machine burst, and there wasn't a spare one in stock, nor in the town. Though he had been warned months ago, when a similar accident happened, that the last spare wheel had been used, he would not spend the money to stock one or two. We had to borrow one from the _Milton Daily Post_. You are well out of the hole, I can tell you. "I read the _Watchman_ every week, and think it immense; but you fly above me, old man. I'm only a country scribbler, and must admire you a long way off. I takes off my hat to you, sir. "The mater is rather queer just now, and I hope she isn't going to kipper. But one never can tell. 'Our times are in His hand,' that's Browning, isn't it? I saw it quoted the other day, and managed to drag it into a leaderette this week. Sounds well, I think. "Pater joins in kind regards--at least, I suppose he does, though I haven't asked him--and Flo is sending her warmest breathings direct, I understand.--Believe me, ever thine, "EDGAR WINTON." Henry was inclined to resent the flippant tone of the letter, the senseless slang; but he remembered that it was "only Edgar's way," and stuffed the sheets back into their envelope and into his inside pocket. Flo's letter he turned over again as he lifted it and Dora's from his knee. He opened his sister's next, and laid the other down.