m, broken only by the rustle as Bassett
mulled over the proofs.

Then there was a crash. The negative lay on the desk ... in fragments.

"Good God!" Furniss' hand was poised in mid-air, as if he had been
turned to stone. Bassett's eyes were staring like a madman's.

Good leaned over and picking up the proofs on the desk, fell to tearing
them slowly to bits. At each tear a spasm of pain crossed Furniss' face.
But he remained transfixed.

"I guess--we won't--run this," said Good dully, as if speaking to
himself.

The words brought Bassett to life. Like an avalanche, prayers, threats,
entreaties, oaths, poured from his lips. He stormed up and down the
office, his fists clenched, his clothes awry, his hair tousled. Suddenly
he subsided, and in a tone like a girl's, and with a manner which one
might use with insanity, he made his entreaties. Then, as suddenly, he
burst into frenzy again.

Good, staring straight before him, still tearing the proofs into shreds,
made no sign.

Furniss was silent too. He stared at Good unwinking, as lifeless as if
carved from ivory, but with such a look of horror in his face as even
Bassett, well-nigh mad with surprise and disappointment, never
afterwards forgot. Then, without warning, the look of horror faded. He
laughed--bitterly, but easily.

"You see, Bassett--I told you--it's just an ordinary newspaper." He
laughed again. The sound sent a shiver down Good's spine. He seemed to
hear it echoing and re-echoing in his ears as Furniss went out, the door
slamming behind him.

When he had gone, Good turned and faced Bassett, who ceased alike to
storm and to plead. The editor was sitting in his chair, chewing his
cigar, already regretting that he had so far lost control of himself.

"You don't understand, do you?" asked Good with ineffable sadness in his
voice.

"Yes," said Bassett, half bitterly, half sadly, "I understand."

The tall man smiled--if the pitiful, hopeless expression that came into
his face could be called a smile, and put his hand on the other's
shoulder.

"No," he said softly, "you don't."

As he went quietly out, from what seemed like a death-chamber, and felt
Bassett's hard eyes following him, he knew that in truth something very
precious had died that night.

In his own office he sat with his head in his hands.

"I'm not a machine--I'm only a man," he repeated over and over again,
until he heard the refrain without speaking. "If I could only make them
unde