“I've hated them for three years,” said Hy. “You should have spoken. It is better to speak of things.” “Speak nothing!” Hy sputtered. “I stood a fine chance.” “You know,” observed Doctor Wilde, as if he had not heard--his voice was husky and curiously weak--“we were interrupted this morning. You were wrong in imagining that a resignation was necessary. You jumped at that conclusion. I should say that you were unnecessarily touchy.” “But my character--” “I repeat, it seems to me that you were unnecessarily touchy. A man must not be too sensitive. He should be strong to take as well as give blows. Your actions, it seemed to me, perhaps wrongly, were a blow to me, to the prestige of this establishment. You must understand, Mr. Lowe, that in this life that we all must live”--absently he looked about to see if Miss Hardwick's pencil was poised to render imperishable the thought that he was about to put into words, caught himself, brushed a limp hand (with the shears in them) across his eyes, then went on with an effort--“I will say further that when we spoke this morning I had not seen the dummy for the issue of July tenth. Now I don't mind telling you that I regard that as a good dummy. You have there caught my ideas of sound make-up better than ever before. And I have--” “But my character--” “--and I have just written instructions to Mr. Hennessy to make a change in your salary beginning with next Saturday's envelope. You are now doing the work of a full managing editor. Your income should be sufficient to enable you to support the position with reasonable dignity. Hereafter you will draw sixty dollars a week.” He moved toward the door. He seemed suddenly a really old man, grayer of hair and skin, more bent, less certain of his footing. “Here!” cried Hy, sputtering in uncontrollable excitement, “those are my shears.” “Ah, so they are. I did not notice.” And the Walrus came back, laid them carefully on the desk: then walked out, entered his own room, closed the dour. Hy shut his door, stood for a moment by the desk, sank, an inert figure, into his chair. His eyes focused on the old alpaca coat, stuffed into the waste basket. He took it out; spread it on the desk and stared at the ink stains. “I can have it cleaned,” he thought. Suddenly he pressed two shaking hands to his throbbing head. “My God!” he muttered, aloud. “What did I say to him. What didn't I say to him? I'm a loon! I'm a nut! This is the asylum!” He stiffened up; sat there for a moment, wildeyed. He reached down and pinched his thigh, hard. He sprang up and paced the room. He wheeled suddenly, craftily, on the silent buzzer, there on the partition. So far all right--the wires were cut! He saw the shears lying on the desk; pounced on them and feverishly examined the blades. One was nicked.