d size up his long-neglected son.

VII

_In which an Assistant Editor, experiencing the Common Desire to
thrash a Proof-Reader, makes a Humiliating Discovery; and of how
Trainer Klinker gets a Pupil the Same Evening._

The industrial problems of the Bavarians seemed an inoffensive thesis
enough, but who can evade Destiny?

Queed never read his own articles when they appeared in print in the
_Post_. In this peculiarity he may be said to have resembled all the
rest of the world, with the exception of the Secretary of the Tax Reform
League, and the Assistant Secretary of the State Department of
Charities. But not by any such device, either, can a man elude his Fate.
On the day following his conversation with Mrs. Paynter's agent, Fortune
gave Queed to hear a portion of his article on the Bavarians read aloud,
and read with derisive laughter.

The incident occurred on a street-car, which he had taken because of the
heavy snow-fall: another illustration of the tiny instruments with which
Providence works out its momentous designs. Had he not taken the car--he
was on the point of not taking it, when one whizzed invitingly up--he
would never have heard of the insult that the Post's linotype had put
upon him, and the course of his life might have been different. As it
was, two men on the next seat in front were reading the Post and making
merry.

"... '_A lengthy procession of fleas harassed the diet._' Now what in
the name of Bob ..."

Gradually the sentence worked its way into the closed fastness of the
young man's mind. It had a horrible familiarity, like a ghastly parody
on something known and dear. With a quick movement he leaned forward,
peering over the shoulder of the man who held the paper.

The man looked around, surprised and annoyed by the strange face
breaking in so close to his own, but Queed paid no attention to him. Yes
... it was his article they were mocking at--HIS article. He remembered
the passage perfectly. He had written: "A lengthy procession of pleas
harassed the Diet." His trained eye swept rapidly down the half column
of print. There it was! "A procession of fleas." In _his_ article!
Fleas, unclean, odious vermin, in His Article!

Relatively, Queed cared nothing about his work on the _Post_, but for
all the children of his brain, even the smallest and feeblest, he had a
peculiar tenderness. He was more jealous of them than a knight of his
honor, or a beauty of her com