The Editor was looking hard at the endof his cigar--the sixth. The Journalist fumbled for his watch. Theothers, as far as I remember, were motionless.The Editor stood up with a sigh. 'What a pity it is you're nota writer of stories!' he said, putting his hand on the TimeTraveller's shoulder.'You don't believe it?''Well----''I thought not.
The toil of a man'sdaily work is rarely for himself alone, it goes to feed, to clothe, toeducate those cardinal consequences of his being, his children; hebuilds... read more
