"... '_A lengthy procession of fleas harassed the diet._' Now what in
the name of Bob ..."
Gradually the sentence worked its way into the closed fastness of the
young man's mind. It had a horrible familiarity, like a ghastly parody
on something known and dear. With a quick movement he leaned forward,
peering over the shoulder of the man who held the paper.
The man looked around, surprised and annoyed by the strange face
breaking in so close to his own, but Queed paid no attention to him. Yes
... it was his article they were mocking at--HIS article. He remembered
the passage perfectly. He had written: "A lengthy procession of pleas
harassed the Diet." His trained eye swept rapidly down the half column
of print. There it was! "A procession of fleas." In _his_ article!
Fleas, unclean, odious vermin, in His Article!
Relatively, Queed cared nothing about his work on the _Post_, but for
all the children of his brain, even the smallest and feeblest, he had a
peculiar tenderness. He was more jealous of them than a knight of his
honor, or a beauty of her complexion. No insult to his character could
have enraged him like a slight put upon the least of these his articles.
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