There seemed to be nothing to justify homicide on his part or the stranger's.

Yet there was no knowing, and his questioner's bucolic appearance by no means precluded an assault.

Indeed, it had been a legend of the office that a predecessor had suffered vicariously from a geological hammer covertly introduced into a scientific controversy by an irate professor.
"As we make ourselves responsible for the conduct of the magazine," continued the young editor, with mature severity, "we do not give up the names of our contributors.

If you do not agree with their opinions"-- "But I DO," said the stranger, with his former composure, "and I reckon that's why I want to know who wrote those verses called 'Underbrush,' signed 'White Violet,' in your last number.

They're pow'ful pretty." The editor flushed slightly, and glanced instinctively around for any unexpected witness of his ludicrous mistake.