Go on."
"----'public, there remains but one end,--the oblivion that is preceded by
toleration and cenotaphed with contempt. From that fate Mr. Heldar has yet to
prove himself out of danger."
"Wow--wow--wow--wow--wow!" said Dick, profanely. "It's a clumsy ending and vile
journalese, but it's quite true. And yet,"--he sprang to his feet and snatched
at the manuscript,--"you scarred, deboshed, battered old gladiator! you're sent
out when a war begins, to minister to the blind, brutal, British public's
bestial thirst for blood. They have no arenas now, but they must have special
correspondents. You're a fat gladiator who comes up through a trap-door and
talks of what he's seen. You stand on precisely the same level as an energetic
bishop, an affable actress, a devastating cyclone, or--mine own sweet self. And
you presume to lecture me about my work! Nilghai, if it were worth while I'd
caricature you in four papers!"
The Nilghai winced. He had not thought of this.
"As it is, I shall take this stuff and tear it small--so!" The manuscript
fluttered in slips down the dark well of the staircase. "Go home, Nilghai,"
said Dick; "go home to your lonely little bed, and leave me in peace. I am
about to turn in till to morrow.
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