BEZZLE, leaping at the publisher with eyes that
fairly blazed with the radiance of rectitude, "who do you take me for?"
If Mr. BEZZLE had been less violent he would probably have said, "_Whom_
do you take me for," and so have spared himself the ignominy of sinking
to the ungrammatical level of the Common Herd. But the fact is, his
proud spirit was chafed and fretted at the spectacle of sordid
self-seeking that everywhere met his gaze, and excess of sentiment made
him forgetful of syntax. "Mark me, my friend, I am not to be bought," he
continued in unconscious blank verse. "I _shall_ take my pick, sir, and
_you_ will take this check." And he handed the amazed publisher a check
for five hundred dollars. "I sicken, sir," he continued, "of this
qualmish air of half-truth that I have breathed so long. I am going to
read these books, and say what I think of 'em, and five hundred dollars
is dirt cheap for the privilege. I had sooner that every 'New
Publications' ad. should die out of my newspaper than that my literary
columns should be contaminated with a Lie! Never mind the change, sir.
If anything is left over, send it to the proprietor of the new penny
paper that is struggling to keep its head above water.
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