I thought this rather strong and not quite to the point; but Masthead said it was a fact that our candidate, who was very little known in Claybank, had "served a term" in the Warm Springs asylum, and the issue must be boldly met—that evasion and denial were but forms of prostration beneath the iron wheels of Truth! As he said this he seemed to inflate and expand so as almost to fill his clothes, and the fire of his eye somehow burned into me an impression—since effaced—that a just cause is not imperiled by a trifling concession to fact. So, leaving the matter quite in my editor's hands I went away to keep some important engagements, the paragraph having involved me in several duels with the friends of Mr. Broskin. I thought it rather hard that I should have to defend my new editor's policy against the supporters of my own candidate, particularly as I was clearly in the right and they knew nothing whatever about the matter in dispute, not one of them having ever before so much as heard of the now famous Warm Springs asylum. But I would not shirk even the humblest journalistic duty; I fought these fellows and acquitted myself as became a man of letters and a politician. The hurts I got were some time healing, and in the interval every prominent member of my party who came to Claybank to speak to the people regarded it as a simple duty to call first at my house, make a tender inquiry as to the progress of my recovery and leave a challenge. My physician forbade me to read a line of anything; the consequence was that Masthead had it all his own way with the paper. In looking over the old files now, I find that he devoted his entire talent and all the space of the paper, including what had been the advertising columns, to confessing that our candidate had been an inmate of a lunatic asylum, and contemptuously asking the opposing party what they were going to do about it.
All this time Mr. Broskin made no sign; but when the challenges became intolerable I indignantly instructed Mr. Masthead to whip round to the other side and support my brother-in-law. Masthead "sank the individual," and duly announced, with his accustomed frankness, our change of policy. Then Mr. Broskin came down to Claybank—to thank me! He was a fine, respectable-looking gentleman, and impressed me very favorably. But Masthead was in when he called, and the effect upon him was different. He shrank into a mere heap of old clothes, turned white, and chattered his teeth. Noting this extraordinary behavior, I at once sought an explanation.
"Mr. Broskin," said I, with a meaning glance at the trembling editor, "from certain indications I am led to fear that owing to some mistake we may have been doing you an injustice. May I ask you if you were really ever in the Lunatic asylum at Warm Springs, Missouri?"
"For three years," he replied, quietly, "I was the physician in charge of that institution. Your son"—turning to Masthead, who was flying all sorts of colors—"was, if I mistake not, one of my patients. I learn that a few weeks ago a friend of yours, named Norton, secured the young man's release upon your promise to take care of him yourself in future. I hope that home associations have improved the poor fellow. It's very sad!"
It was indeed. Norton was the name of the man to whom I had written for an editor, and who had sent me one! Norton was ever an obliging fellow.
WHY I AM NOT EDITING "THE STINGER"
J. Munniglut, Proprietor, to Peter Pitchin, Editor.
"STINGER" OFFICE, Monday, 9 A.M.
A man has called to ask "who wrote that article about Mr. Muskler." I told him to find out, and he says that is what he means to do. He has consented to amuse himself with the exchanges while I ask you. I don't approve the article.
Peter Pitchin, Editor, to J. Munniglut, Proprietor.
13 LOFER STREET, Monday, 10 A.M.
Do you happen to remember how Dacier translates Difficile est proprie communia dicere? I've made a note of it somewhere, but can't find it. If you remember please leave a memorandum of it on your table, and I'll get it when I come down this afternoon.
P.S.—Tell the man to go away; we can't be bothered about that fellow Muskler.
J. Munniglut, Proprietor, to Peter Pitchin, Editor.
"STINGER" OFFICE, Monday, 11:30 A.M.
I can't be impolite to a stranger, you know; I must tell him somebody wrote it. He has finished the exchanges, and is drumming on the floor with the end of his stick; I fear the people in the shop below won't like it. Besides, the foreman says it disturbs the compositors in the next room. Suppose you come down.
Peter Pitchin, Editor, to J. Munniglut, Proprietor.
13 LOFER STREET, Monday, 1 P.M.
I have found the note I made of that translation, but it is in French and I can't make it out. Try the man with the dictionary and the "Books of Dates." They ought to last him till it's time to close the office. I shall be down early to-morrow morning.
P.S.—How big is he? Suggest a civil suit for libel.
J. Munniglut, Proprietor, to Peter Pitchin, Editor.
"STINGER" OFFICE, Monday, 3 P.M.
He looks larger than he was when he came in. I've offered him the dictionary; he says he has read it before. He is sitting on my table. Come at once!
Peter Pitchin, Editor, to J. Munniglut, Proprietor.
13 LOFER STREET, Monday, 5 P.M.
I don't think I shall. I am doing an article for this week on "The Present Aspect of the Political Horizon." Expect me very early to-morrow. You had better turn the man out and shut up the office.
Henry Inxling, Bookkeeper, to Peter Pitchin, Editor.
"STINGER" OFFICE, Tuesday, 8 A.M.
Mr. Munniglut has not arrived, but his friend, the large gentleman who was with him all day yesterday, is here again. He seems very desirous of seeing you, and says he will wait. Perhaps he is your cousin. I thought I would tell you he was here, so that you might hasten down.
Ought I to allow dogs in the office? The gentleman has a bull-dog.
Peter Pitchin, Editor, to Henry Inxling, Bookkeeper.
13 LOFER STREET, Tuesday, 9.30 A.M.
Certainly not; dogs have fleas. The man is an impostor. Oblige me by turning him out. I shall come down this afternoon—early.
P.S.—Don't listen to the rascal's entreaties; out with him!
Henry Inxling, Bookkeeper, to Peter Pitchin, Editor.
"STINGER" OFFICE, Tuesday, 12 M.
The gentleman carries a revolver. Would you mind coming down and reasoning with him? I have a wife and five children depending on me, and when I lose my temper I am likely to go too far. I would prefer that you should turn him out.
Peter Pitchin, Editor, to Henry Inxling, Bookkeeper.
13 LOFER STREET, Tuesday, 2 P.M.
Do you suppose I can leave my private correspondence to preserve you from the intrusion and importunities of beggars? Put the scoundrel out at once—neck and heels! I know him; he's Muskler—don't you remember? Muskler, the coward, who assaulted an old man; you'll find the whole circumstances related in last Saturday's issue. Out with him—the unmanly sneak!