Early the next morning the editor handed Mrs. Dimmidge's advertisement,
and the woodcut he had selected, to his foreman. He was purposely brief
in his directions, so as to avoid inquiry, and retired to his sanctum.
In the space of a few moments the foreman entered with a slight
embarrassment of manner.
"You'll excuse my speaking to you, sir," he said, with a singular
mixture of humility and cunning. "It's no business of mine, I know; but
I thought I ought to tell you that this yer kind o' thing won't pay any
more,--it's about played out!"
"I don't think I understand you," said the editor loftily, but with
an inward misgiving. "You don't mean to say that a regular, actual
advertisement"--
"Of course, I know all that," said the foreman, with a peculiar smile;
"and I'm ready to back you up in it, and so's the boy; but it won't
pay."
"It HAS paid a hundred and five dollars," said the editor, taking the
notes from his pocket; "so I'd advise you to simply attend to your duty
and set it up.
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