Having qualified, he could
open that drawer again, with a rushing access of stifled ardor, and
await the Colonel's demise; but to do this, he figured now, would take
him not less than two months and a half. Two months and a half wrenched
from the Schedule! That sacred bill of rights not merely corrupted, but
for a space nullified and cancelled! Yes, it was the ultimate sacrifice
that outraged pride of intellect had demanded; but the young man would
not flinch. And there were moments when Trainer Klinker was startled by
the close-shut misery of his face.
The Scriptorium had been degraded into a sickening school of journalism.
Day after day, night after night, Queed sat at his tiny table poring
over back files of the _Post_, examining Colonel Cowles's editorials as
a geologist examines a Silurian deposit. He analyzed, classified,
tabulated, computed averages, worked out underlying laws; and
gradually, with great travail--for the journalese language was to him as
Greek to another--he deduced from a thousand editorials a few broad
principles, somewhat as follows:--
1. That the Colonel dealt with a very wide range of concrete topics,
including many that appeared extremely trivial.
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