quiggs," said Doc Miller most
savagely, not because he had any particular grudge against the
unfortunately named G. W., but because of discipline and the custom
with "cubs," "the next time you're sent out on a twenty-minute
assignment like this, remember the number of the _Bulletin_, 427 Grand
Street. The telephone is Central 2051, and don't forget to report the
same day. Did you get the man's name? Uh-huh. His address? Uh-huh.
Well, we don't want the item."

Slow and phlegmatic Jim Brown, who had been city editor on the
_Bulletin_ almost since it was the _Bulletin_ under half a dozen
changes of ownership and nearly a score of managing editors, sauntered
over into Jolter's room with a copy of the paper in his hand, and a
long black stogie held by some miracle in the corner of his mouth,
where it would be quite out of the road of conversation.

"Pretty good stuff," he drawled, indicating the remarkable first page.

"The greatest circus act that was ever pulled off in the newspaper
business," asserted Jolter. "It will quadruple the present circulation
of the _Bulletin_ in a week."

"Make or break," assented the city editor, "with the odds in favor of
the break."

A slenderly-built young man, whose red face needed a shave and whose
clothes, though wrinkled and unbrushed, shrieked of quality, came
stumbling up the stairs in such hot haste as was possible in his
condition, and without ceremony or announcement burst into the room
where Bobby Burnit, with that day's issue of the _Bulletin_ spread out
before him, was trying earnestly to get a professional idea of the
proper contents of a newspaper.

"Great goods, old man!" said the stranger. "I want to congratulate you
on your lovely nerve," and seizing Bobby's hand he shook it violently.

"Thanks," said Bobby, not quite sure whether to be amused or
resentful. "Who are you?"

"I'm Dillingham," announced the red-faced young man with a cheerful
smile.

Bobby was about to insist upon further information, when Mr. Jolter
came in to introduce Brown, who had not yet met Mr. Burnit.

"Dill," drawled Brown, with a twinkle in his eye, "how much money have
you?"

"Money to burn; money in every pocket," asserted Mr. Dillingham;
"money to last for ever," and he jammed both hands in his trousers'
pockets.

It was an astonishing surprise to Mr. Dillingham, after groping in
those pockets, to find that he brought up only a dollar bill in his
left hand and forty-five cents in s