Well, it happened like this,--
"Farrell called on you this morning, soon after breakfast-time, and
found me breakfasting. He was in something of a perspiration.
It appeared that he'd fired off a letter to the _Times_ directed
against our dear Professor; and, having fired it, had learnt from
somebody that the Professor was a close friend of ours. He had come
around to make the peace with you, if he could--he's a funny little
snob. But you had flown."
"I had gone off," said I, "to catch Jack Foe and warn him that the
letter was dangerous."
"Think so? Well, you'd left the _Times_ lying on the floor, and
he picked it up and read his composition to me while I dallied with
the bacon. It seemed to me pretty fair tosh, and I told him so.
I promised that if his second thoughts about it coincided with my
first ones, I would pass them on together to you when I saw you next,
and added that I had trouble to adapt my hours to political
candidates, they were such early risers. That, you might say, verged
on a hint: but he didn't take it. He hung about, standing on one leg
and then on the other, protesting that he would put things right.
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