hands were fat and
nervous.

"So you want to do newspaper work?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I think I can make a go of it."

"Any experience?"

"None to speak of. I've written a few things. I thought you might
remember my name."

"Your name? Banneker? No. Why should I?"

"You published some of my things in the Sunday edition, lately. From
Manzanita, California."

"No. I don't think so. Mr. Homans." A graying man with the gait of a
marionnette and the precise expression of a rocking-horse, who had just
entered, crossed over. "Have we sent out any checks to a Mr. Banneker
recently, in California?"

The new arrival, who was copy-reader and editorial selecter for the
Sunday edition, repeated the name in just such a wooden voice as was to
be expected. "No," he said positively.

"But I've cashed the checks," returned Banneker, annoyed and bewildered.
"And I've seen the clipping of the article in the Sunday Sphere of--"

"Just a moment. You're not in The Sphere office. Did you think you were?
Some one has directed you wrong. This is The Ledger."

"Oh!" said Banneker. "It was a policeman that pointed it out. I suppose
I saw wrong." He paused; then looked up ingenuously. "But, anyway, I'd
rather be on The Ledger."

Mr. Gordon smiled broadly, the thin blade poised over a plump, reddened
knuckle.

"Would you! Now, why?"

"I've been reading it. I like the way it does things."

The editor laughed outright. "If you didn't look so honest, I would
think that somebody of experience had been tutoring you. How many other
places have you tried?"

"None."

"You were going to The Sphere first? On the promise of a job?"

"No. Because they printed what I wrote."

"The Sphere's ways are not our ways," pronounced Mr. Gordon primly.
"It's a fundamental difference in standards."

"I can see that."

"Oh, you can, can you?" chuckled the other. "But it's true that we have
no opening here."

(The Ledger never did have an "opening"; but it managed to wedge in a
goodly number of neophytes, from year to year, ninety per cent of whom
were automatically and courteously ejected after due trial. Mr. Gordon
performed a surpassing rataplan upon his long-suffering thumb-joint and
wondered if this queer and direct being might qualify among the
redeemable ten per cent.)

"I can wait." (They often said that.) "For a while," added the youth
thoughtfully.

"How long have you been in New York?"

"Thirty-three days."

"And what have yo