that
bag you think will interest us, bring it out. It's against office rules,
but--"

Galbraithe tried to recall if, on his way downtown, he had inadvertently
stopped anywhere for a cocktail. He had no recollection of so doing.
Perhaps he was a victim of a mental lapse--one of those freak blank
spaces of which the alienists were talking so much lately. He made one
more attempt to place himself. In his day he had been one of the star
reporters of the staff.

"Ever hear of--of Galbraithe?" he inquired anxiously.

By this time several men had gathered around the two desks as interested
spectators. Galbraithe scanned their faces, but he didn't recognize one
of them.

"Haven't got a card about your person, have you?" inquired Green.

"Why, yes," answered Galbraithe, fumbling for his case. The group
watched him with some curiosity, and Harding, the youngest man, scenting
a story, pushed to the front. With so many eyes upon him Galbraithe grew
so confused that he couldn't find his card case.

"I'm sure I had it with me," he apologized.

"Remember where you were last night?" inquired Green.

"Just got in this morning," answered Galbraithe. "I--here it is."

He drew out a card and handed it to Green. The group gathered closer and
read it.

"Harvey L. Galbraithe, Trego County Courier."

Green solemnly extended his hand.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Galbraithe. Up here on business, or pleasure?"

"I used to work here," explained Galbraithe. "I came up on a vacation to
see the boys."

"Used to work on this sheet?" exclaimed Green, as though doubting it.

"I left five years ago," answered Galbraithe.

"Holy Smoke!" exclaimed Green, with a low whistle. "You are sure some
old-timer. Let's see--that's over fifteen hundred days ago. When did you
come on?"

"Just before the Spanish War," answered Galbraithe eagerly. "Hartson
sent me to Cuba."

Harding came closer, his eyes burning with new interest.

"Gee," he exclaimed, "those must have been great days. I ran across an
old codger at the Press Club once who was with Dewey at Manila."

He spoke as Galbraithe might speak of the Crimean War. He pressed the
latter for details, and Galbraithe, listening to the sound of his own
voice, allowed himself to be led on. When he was through he felt
toothless, and as though his hair had turned gray.

"Those were the happy days," exclaimed Harding. "The game was worth
playing then--eh, old man?"

"Yes," mumbled Galbraithe. "But