The Rasp by Philip MacDonald to The Guv’nor All the Birds of the Air Fell a-sighin’ and a-sobbin’ When they heard of the death Of poor Cock Robin. · · · · “Who’ll dig his Grave?” “I,” said the Owl, “With my little Trowel; I’ll dig his Grave.” · · · · “Who _killed_ Cock Robin?” “I,” said the Sparrow, “With my Bow and Arrow, _I_ killed Cock Robin!” Chapter I. Tolling the Bell 1 _The Owl_ shows its blue and gilt cover on the bookstalls every Saturday morning. Thursday nights are therefore nights of turmoil in the offices in Fleet Street. They are always wearing nights; more so, of course, in hot weather than in cold. They are nights of discomfort for the office-boy and of something worse for the editor. Spencer Hastings edited _The Owl_, and owned a third of it; and the little paper’s success showed him to possess both brains and capacity for hard work. For a man of thirty-three he had achieved much; but that capacity for work was hard tested—especially on Thursday nights. As to the brains, there was really no doubt of their quality. Take, for instance, _The Owl_ “specials.” After he had thought of them and given birth to the first, _The Owl_, really a weekly review, was enabled to reap harvests in the way of “scoops” without in any way degenerating into a mere purveyor of news. The thing was worked like this: If, by the grace of God or through a member of the “special” staff or by any other channel, there came to Hastings’s ears a piece of Real News which might as yet be unknown to any of the big daily or evening papers, then within a few hours, whatever the day or night of the week, there appeared a special edition of _The Owl_. It bore, in place of the blue and gold, a cover of red and black. The letterpress was sparse. The price was two pence. The public bought the first two out of curiosity, and the subsequent issues because they had discovered that when the red and black jacket was seen Something had really Happened. The public bought the real _Owl_ as well. It was always original, written by men and women as yet little known and therefore unspoilt. It was witty, exciting, soothing, biting, laudatory, ironic, and sincere—all in one breath and irreproachable taste. And Hastings loved it. But Thursday nights, press nights, were undoubtedly Hell. And this Thursday night, hotter almost than its stifling day, was the very hell of Hells. He ruffled his straw-coloured hair, looking, as a woman once said of him, rather like a stalwart and handsome chicken. Midnight struck. He worked on, cursing at the heat, the paper, his material, and the fact that his confidential secretary, his right-hand woman, was making holiday. He finished correcting the proofs of his leader, then reached for two over-long articles by new contributors. As he picked up a blue pencil, his door burst open.