A SEED IN WASTE PLACES 



(To M. G. S.) 



To and fro over the heated surface of 

 Fleet Street passed the red omnibuses, 

 a sickly pale vapour coming from the 

 engines. It was a Saturday afternoon in 

 August, and there were few people about. 

 For myself, I had to toil at my useless and 

 fretting work of getting material for one 

 of the big Sunday newspapers. Saturday 

 was the day when the paper became alive, 

 and the Editor more exacting and more 

 like an Egyptian slave-driver than ever. 

 This was from the point of view of the 

 wretched hack-writers who were privileged 

 to work from ten o'clock in the morning 

 till midnight the same day. Possibly the 

 Editor did not regard himself as one so 

 omnipotent, since he was the target for the 

 deadly arrows of the proprietor's wrath 



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