He sat back in his seat, feeling white, and something clicked inside his
head. He remembered having heard that click once before. It was the
night he determined to evolve the final theory of social progress, which
would wipe out all other theories as the steam locomotive had wiped out
the prairie schooner.
He knew well enough what that click meant now. He had got a new purpose,
and that was to exact personal reparation from the criminal who had made
Him and His Work the butt of street-car loafers. Never, it seemed to
him, could he feel clean again until he had wiped off those fleas with
gore.
To his grim inquiry Colonel Cowles replied that the head proof-reader,
Mr. Pat, was responsible for typographical errors, and Mr. Pat did not
"come on" till 6.30. It was now but 5.50. Queed sat down, wrote his next
day's article and handed it to the Colonel, who read the title and
coughed.
"I shall require no article from you to-morrow or next day. On the
following day"--here the Colonel opened a drawer and consulted a
schedule--"I shall receive with pleasure your remarks on 'Fundamental
Principles of Distribution--Article Four.
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