ut it wasn't true, not a word of what he wrote," Martin went on,
confining his attention to Brissenden.

"It was just in a general way a description, you understand," the cub
ventured, "and besides, it's good advertising. That's what counts. It
was a favor to you."

"It's good advertising, Martin, old boy," Brissenden repeated solemnly.

"And it was a favor to me--think of that!" was Martin's contribution.

"Let me see--where were you born, Mr. Eden?" the cub asked, assuming an
air of expectant attention.

"He doesn't take notes," said Brissenden. "He remembers it all."

"That is sufficient for me." The cub was trying not to look worried. "No
decent reporter needs to bother with notes."

"That was sufficient--for last night." But Brissenden was not a disciple
of quietism, and he changed his attitude abruptly. "Martin, if you don't
poke him, I'll do it myself, if I fall dead on the floor the next
moment."

"How will a spanking do?" Martin asked.

Brissenden considered judicially, and nodded his head.

The next instant Martin was seated on the edge of the bed with the cub
face downward across his knees.

"Now don't bite," Martin warned, "or else I'll have to punch your face.
It would be a pity, for it is such a pretty face."

His uplifted hand descended, and thereafter rose and fell in a swift and
steady rhythm. The cub struggled and cursed and squirmed, but did not
offer to bite. Brissenden looked on gravely, though once he grew excited
and gripped the whiskey bottle, pleading, "Here, just let me swat him
once."

"Sorry my hand played out," Martin said, when at last he desisted. "It
is quite numb."

He uprighted the cub and perched him on the bed.

"I'll have you arrested for this," he snarled, tears of boyish
indignation running down his flushed cheeks. "I'll make you sweat for
this. You'll see."

"The pretty thing," Martin remarked. "He doesn't realize that he has
entered upon the downward path. It is not honest, it is not square, it
is not manly, to tell lies about one's fellow-creatures the way he has
done, and he doesn't know it."

"He has to come to us to be told," Brissenden filled in a pause.

"Yes, to me whom he has maligned and injured. My grocery will
undoubtedly refuse me credit now. The worst of it is that the poor boy
will keep on this way until he deteriorates into a first-class newspaper
man and also a first-class scoundrel."

"But there is yet time," quoth Brissend