Editor's desk with such tremendous force and vengeance,
that the paste-pot and ink-bottle began to dance a lively jig.
But the poor fellow was out of breath again, and the sar
donic grin on the Editor's face was too much for him, so he
sank wearily into a chair.
"I wished I could ever get something into your idiotic
brain," he continued, looking helplessly at the 'Editor.
"I wished you could," replied the Editor, "but the , case
is hopeless so you had better give it up."
The Critic evidently thought so too, for he closed his
eyes and said nothing.
The Editor drummed a. lively tattoo on his desk for a
moment, picked up his pen and thrust i L deep in the ink-well,
scratched his head, and began looking at the ceiling as if
counting the hiumerable cobwebs resting there. Minutes
passed, and silence reigned supreme. The Editor's gaze
had by this time passed several miles beyond the cobwebs.
He was searching through infinite space to find an infini
tesimal idea. But it was like looking for a needle in a hay
stack,—it could not he found. Finally becoming weary of
the chase, he brought himself back to earth and, looking at
the dejected attitude of his friend, exclaimed,—
"Come Critic, old fellow, don't take it so hard. We
won't have anything this month but my remarks, and those
you know, 'don't amount to anything anyway.' "
But the effect of these remarks were lost on the Critic,
for he was fast asleep. So the Editor picked up his pen
again, and began to write.
When the, present Board of . F.lditors took charge of the
FRgr, LANCV 4 last April, it was but with the hope and desire
of maintaining the standard which they had set, and follow-
The P) we Lance.
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