ong since the editor was himself a
reporter, and he could see that it was as good a story as Bronson could
wish it to be. But he reiterated, "Yes, I mean to give it to the papers
to-night."

"But think," said Aram--"think, sir, who I am. You don't want to ruin me
for the rest of my life just for a matter of fifteen dollars, do you?
Fifteen dollars that no one has lost, either. If I'd embezzled a million
or so, or if I had robbed the city, well and good! I'd have taken big
risks for big money; but you are going to punish me just as hard,
because I tried to please my wife, as though I had robbed a mint. No one
has really been hurt," he pleaded; "the men who wrote the poems--they've
been paid for them; they've got all the credit for them they _can_ get.
You've not lost a cent. I've gained nothing by it; and yet you gentlemen
are going to give this thing to the papers, and, as you say, sir, we
know what they will make of it. What with my being my father's son, and
all that, my father is going to suffer. My family is going to suffer. It
will ruin me--"

The editor put the papers back into his pocket. If Bronson had not been
there he might possibly instead have handed them over to Mr. Aram, and
this story would never have been written. But he could not do that now.
Mr. Aram's affairs had become the property of the New York newspaper.

He turned to his friend doubtfully. "What do you think, Bronson?" he
asked.

At this sign of possible leniency Aram ceased in his rocking and sat
erect, with eyes wide open and fixed on Bronson's face. But the latter
trailed his stick over the rug beneath his feet and shrugged his
shoulders.

"Mr. Aram," he said, "might have thought of his family and his father
before he went into this business. It is rather late now. But," he
added, "I don't think it is a matter we can decide in any event. It
should be left to the firm."

"Yes," said the editor, hurriedly, glad of the excuse to temporize, "we
must leave it to the house." But he read Bronson's answer to mean that
he did not intend to let the plagiarist escape, and he knew that even
were Bronson willing to do so, there was still his City Editor to be
persuaded.

The two men rose and stood uncomfortably, shifting their hats in their
hands--and avoiding each other's eyes. Mr. Aram stood up also, and
seeing that his last chance had come, began again to plead desperately.

"What good would fifteen dollars do me?" he said, with a gesture of