sacred,
home-bred Art and Dickenson's Weekly.'

Torpenhow smoked in silence for a while. Then came the verdict,
delivered from rolling clouds: 'If you were only a mass of blathering
vanity, Dick, I wouldn't mind,--I'd let you go to the deuce on your own
mahl-stick; but when I consider what you are to me, and when I find
that to vanity you add the twopenny-halfpenny pique of a twelve-year-old
girl, then I bestir myself in your behalf. Thus!'

The canvas ripped as Torpenhow's booted foot shot through it, and the
terrier jumped down, thinking rats were about.

'If you have any bad language to use, use it. You have not. I continue.

You are an idiot, because no man born of woman is strong enough to take
liberties with his public, even though they be--which they ain't--all
you say they are.'

'But they don't know any better. What can you expect from creatures born
and bred in this light?' Dick pointed to the yellow fog. 'If they want
furniture-polish, let them have furniture-polish, so long as they pay
for it.

They are only men and women. You talk as if they were gods.'

'That sounds very fine, but it has nothing to do with the case. They are
they people you have to do work for, whether you like it or not. They
are your masters. Don't be deceived, Dickie, you aren't strong enough to
trifle with them,--or with yourself, which is more important.

Moreover,--Come back, Binkie: that red daub isn't going
anywhere,--unless you take precious good care, you will fall under the
damnation of the check-book, and that's worse than death. You will get
drunk--you-re half drunk already--on easily acquired money. For that
money and you own infernal vanity you are willing to deliberately turn
out bad work. You'll do quite enough bad work without knowing it. And,
Dickie, as I love you and as I know you love me, I am not going to let
you cut off your nose to spite your face for all the gold in England.
That's settled. Now swear.'

'Don't know, said Dick. 'I've been trying to make myself angry, but
I can't, you're so abominably reasonable. There will be a row on
Dickenson's Weekly, I fancy.'

'Why the Dickenson do you want to work on a weekly paper? It's slow
bleeding of power.'

'It brings in the very desirable dollars,' said Dick, his hands in his
pockets.

Torpenhow watched him with large contempt. 'Why, I thought it was a
man!' said he. 'It's a child.'

'No, it isn't,' said Dick, wheeling quickly. 'You've no notion owhat t