Dimmidge did for HIS," said the lady
complacently. "I didn't see your paper myself, but the paper as copied
it--one of them big New York dailies--said that it took up a whole
column."
The editor breathed more freely; she had not seen the infamous woodcut
which her husband had selected. At the same moment he was struck with a
sense of retribution, justice, and compensation.
"Would you," he asked hesitatingly,--"would you like it illustrated--by
a cut?"
"With which?"
"Wait a moment; I'll show you."
He went into the dark composing-room, lit a candle, and rummaging in a
drawer sacred to weather-beaten, old-fashioned electrotyped advertising
symbols of various trades, finally selected one and brought it to Mrs.
Dimmidge. It represented a bare and exceedingly stalwart arm wielding a
large hammer.
"Your husband being a miner,--a quartz miner,--would that do?" he asked.
(It had been previously used to advertise a blacksmith, a gold-beater,
and a stone-mason.)
The lady examined it critically.
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