"I hear 'em, too," said Howe. "See here"—he turned to Mears—"are you offering to resign in our favor?"
"The minute you say the word."
"Both of you?"
"Believe me," said the city editor, "you can't say the word too soon."
"Well," said Howe, "I don't know what's the matter with the place, but you can consider the deal closed."
"Spoken like a sport!" The bearded man stood up. "You can draw lots to determine who is to be managing editor and who city editor. It's an excellent scheme—I attained my proud position that way. One condition I attach. Ask no questions. Let us go out into the night unburdened with your interrogation points."
Elliott, too, stood. The bearded man indicated the bottle. "Fill up, boys. I propose a toast. To the new editors of the Mail. May Heaven bless them and bring them safely back to the North when Florida's fitful fever is past."
Dizzily, uncertainly, Howe and O'Neill drank.
