eader's undivided attention. To deny him this is
immoral. To make him share your attention with the rattle of a street
car, the moving panorama of the crowds on the sidewalks, and the
buildings beyond--with any of the thousands of distractions which make
our customary environment--is to treat him with gross injustice. By God,
it is infamous!"

The speaker had risen to his feet and was steadying himself by one of
the straps hanging from the roof of the car. The other man looked up at
him in sudden astonishment, wondering how so trivial a grievance could
seem to justify so strong language. He saw that his friend's face was
uncommonly pale and that his eyes glowed like living coals.

"You know what I mean," continued the writer, impetuously crowding his
words--"you know what I mean, Marsh. My stuff in this morning's
_Messenger_ is plainly sub-headed 'A Ghost Story.' That is ample notice
to all. Every honorable reader will understand it as prescribing by
implication the conditions under which the work is to be read."

The man addressed as Marsh winced a trifle, then asked with a smile:
"What conditions? You know that I am only a plain business man who
cannot be supposed to understand such things. How, when, where should I
read your ghost story?"

"In solitude--at night--by the light of a candle. There are certain
emotions which a writer can easily enough excite--such as compassion or
merriment. I can move you to tears or laughter under almost any
circumstances. But for my ghost story to be effective you must be made
to feel fear--at least a strong sense of the supernatural--and that is a
difficult matter. I have a right to expect that if you read me at all
you will give me a chance; that you will make yourself accessible to the
emotion that I try to inspire."

The car had now arrived at its terminus and stopped. The trip just
completed was its first for the day and the conversation of the two
early passengers had not been interrupted. The streets were yet silent
and desolate; the house tops were just touched by the rising sun. As
they stepped from the car and walked away together Marsh narrowly eyed
his companion, who was reported, like most men of uncommon literary
ability, to be addicted to various destructive vices. That is the
revenge which dull minds take upon bright ones in resentment of their
superiority. Mr. Colston was known as a man of genius. There are honest
souls who believe that genius is a mode of excess