The meaning of the
picture was there. The only human note about the child seemed to be
that, looking at him shortly after tea-time, Burton discovered that he
had fallen asleep in his chair.
Burton took up his hat and stole softly out of the room. As quickly as
he could, he made his way to the offices of the Piccadilly Gazette and
sought his friend the sub-editor. The sub-editor greeted him with a
nod.
"Heard about your novel yet?" he inquired.
"I had it back this morning," his caller replied. "I have sent it away
somewhere else. I have written you a little study of 'The Children of
London.' I hope you will like it."
The sub-editor nodded and glanced it through. He laid it down by his
side and for the first time there seemed to be a shadow of hesitation in
his tone.
"Don't force yourself, Burton," he advised, looking curiously at his
contributor. "We will use this in a day or two. You can apply at the
cashier's office for your cheque when you like. But if you don't mind
my saying so, there are little touches here, repetitions, that might be
improved, I think."
Burton thanked him and went home with money in his pocket. He undressed
the boy, who sleepily demanded a bath, put him to sleep in his own bed,
and threw himself into an easy-chair.
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