_
While all move in slots in this world, Mr. Queed's slot was infinitely
more clearly marked than any of his neighbors'. It ran exclusively
between the heaven of his room and the hades of the _Post_ office;
manifesting itself at the latter place in certain staid writings done in
exchange for ten dollars, currency of the realm, paid down each and
every Saturday. Into this slot he had been lifted, as it were by the
ears, by a slip of a girl of the name of Charlotte Lee Weyland, though
it was some time before he ever thought of it in that way.
In the freemasonry of the boarding-house, the young man was early
accepted as he was. He was promptly voted the driest, most uninteresting
and self-absorbed savant ever seen. Even Miss Miller, ordinarily
indefatigable where gentlemen were concerned, soon gave him up. To Mr.
Bylash she spoke contemptuously of him, but secretly she was awed by his
stately manner of speech and his godlike indifference to all pleasures,
including those of female society. Of them all, Nicolovius was the only
one who seemed in the least impressed by Mr. Queed's appointment as
editorial writer on the _Post_.
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