t them away in wrappers which he addressed, and the piece his
blue pencil marked was none of these.

For many days after Mehronay wrote his Easter sermon the gentle, low,
beelike hum that he kept up while he was at work followed the tunes of
gospel hymns, or hymns of an older fashion. We always knew when to
expect what he called a "piece" from Mehronay--which meant an article
into which he put more than ordinary endeavour--for his bee-song would
grow louder, with now and then an intelligible word in it, and if it was
to be an exceptional piece Mehronay would whistle. When he began writing
the music would die down, but when he was well under sail on his
"piece," the steam of his swelling emotions would set his chin to going
like the lid of a kettle, and he would drone and jibber the words as he
wrote them--half audibly, humming and sputtering in the pauses while he
thought. Scores of times we have seen the dear old fellow sitting at his
desk when a "piece" was in the pot, and have gathered the men around
back of his chair to watch him simmer. When it was finished he would
whirl about in his chair, as he gathered up the sheets of paper and
shook them together, and say: "I've writ a piece here--a damn good
piece!" And then, as he put the copy on the hook and got his hat, he
would tell us in most profane language what it was all about--quoting
the best sentences and chuckling to himself as he went out onto the
street.

As the spring filled out and became summer we noticed that Mehronay was
singing fewer gospel hymns and rather more sentimental songs than usual.
And then the horrible report came to the office that Mehronay had been
seen by one of the printers walking by night after bed-time under the
State Street elms with a woman. Also his items began to indicate a
closer knowledge of what was going on in society than Mehronay naturally
could have. In the fall we learned through the girls in the Bee Hive
that he had bought a white shirt and a pair of celluloid cuffs. This
rumour set the office afire with curiosity, but no one dared to tease
Mehronay. For no one knew who she was.

Not until late in the fall, when Madame Janauschek came to the opera
house to play "Macbeth," did Mehronay uncover his intrigue. Then for
the first time in his three years' employment on the paper he asked for
two show tickets! The entire office lined up at the opera house--most of
us paying our own way, not to see the Macbeths, but to see Mehron