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that the editor may be one of those "stuck-up" people who would
as soon have a stranger defile his tooth-brush as his pipe-stem. Then he
begins to loll--for a person who can consent to loaf his useless life
away in ignominious indolence has not the energy to sit up straight.
He stretches full length on the sofa awhile; then draws up to half
length; then gets into a chair, hangs his head back and his arms abroad,
and stretches his legs till the rims of his boot-heels rest upon the
floor; by and by sits up and leans forward, with one leg or both over the
arm of the chair. But it is still observable that with all his changes
of position, he never assumes the upright or a fraudful affectation of
dignity. From time to time he yawns, and stretches, and scratches
himself with a tranquil, mangy enjoyment, and now and then he grunts a
kind of stuffy, overfed grunt, which is full of animal contentment. At
rare and long intervals, however, he sighs a sigh that is the eloquent
expression of a secret confession, to wit "I am useless and a nuisance,
a cumberer of the earth." The bore and his comrades--for there are
usually from two to four on hand, day and night--mix into the
conversation when men come in to see the editors for a moment on
business; they hold noisy talks among themselves about politics in
particular, and all other subjects in general--even warming up, after a
fashion, sometimes, and seeming to take almost a real interest in what
they are discussing. They ruthlessly call an editor from his work with
such a remark as: "Did you see this, Smith, in the Gazette?" and proceed
to read the paragraph while the sufferer reins in his impatient pen and
listens; they often loll and sprawl round the office hour after hour,
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