mouths—nor two brains either," he added unnecessarily.
"I want help!" said Professor Higginson wildly. "Help!"
"What you want," said the heavy Babcock, with a solid mental grip that mastered his victim, "is someone to open all those letters, and sort 'em out, one from the other, and see what ought to be said, eh? Kind of thing that ought to be said. Got a telephone?"
"No—yes—no," said Professor Higginson as he reached his door.
"You ought to have—a man of your position," said Babcock. They had reached the door. "I 'll come in and help you," he added.
He did so. He set to work at once did Babcock—strongly and well. He reproved his unhappy colleague again for not having a telephone, sent out a servant in a cab with the address of a shorthand writer and of a typist, newspaper people obtainable of a Sunday, and he ordered a machine. Then he proceeded with tremendous rapidity to slice open the great heap of envelopes with a butter knife.
He sorted out their contents at a pace that appalled
