“Thanks, Noll--you overwhelm me.... Ah, Noll, if all the world were as prejudiced an admirer as you are--and as frankly honest in the statement of their admiration--I might be a great man.” “But, Netherby,” said Noll, eyeing him critically--“when did you discover you were clever?” Gomme coughed: “Well--er--when people began to tell me my own stories.” “I wish I could write that sort of comic rot,” said Noll enviously. “Noll, it is easy enough to be funny. _I_ envy the man of action.” The yellow-haired youth got up from his chair, lank and lean and awkward, and paced the room with prowling gait. “To feel the blood tingle through one in hair’s-breadth escapes--to use one’s strength--to live, man, live!... To beat grips with life and danger and death, instead of writing lyrics or other tomfoolery about it, or about what you think other people ought to think about it!” “Chuck it, Netherby!” Gomme, pacing up and down the room, took no heed of the interruption. “Writing history across the face of the world!... That is a bigger thing than spilling ink.... I know what it feels like a little,” he added. “The boxing sergeant knocked me down five times running in rapid succession at the gymnasium last night, and at the first fall I felt the transferred glory of what he must have felt. There is wondrous delight, a sense of the sublime, in conquest--even with the boxing-gloves on!... Of course, now, it would be something to write a _tragedy_.” Noll snorted: “Oh, tragedy’s all piffle! You don’t go to a theatre to sniff.... Give me a jolly good pantomime for an artistic jaunt. Shush! the governor.” He vaulted on to his desk-stool as the door was flung open. “Cafoshulam--it’s Julia!” he cried, swinging round on his stool again as the door shut with a slam, and a pretty young woman in neat black dress ran up to Netherby Gomme. “Oh, Netherby,” she gasped, seizing his arm, “there’s a horror of a man keeps following me about--from the time I was at the coffee-shop--and I’ve been afraid to go back to the office lest he should follow me there. And so, at last, I’ve run up here. What am I to do? The man frightens me out of my wits.” “Hush, Julia--keep calm.” Gomme stroked her hand, and, leading her quickly to the editor’s room, threw open the door: “Quick, Julia--in here!” Julia grasped his arm as he was about to shut the door upon her: “No personal violence, please, Netherby. You won’t hurt him--will you?” “My dear Julia,” said he, hurrying her into the room, “I am surprised at such a suggestion!” He shut the door, and, turning his back upon it, he added grimly: “Personal violence is quite contrary to the traditions of this office, Noll--it should, in our judgment, be the very last resource.” He coughed. “The office broom, I fear, Noll, is in the editor’s cupboard----” Noll whooped: “Hooroosh!” cried he--“we haven’t had a row in the office for nearly five weeks!” There was a loud knock.