pping. "From
bank president to hobo. Was his bank an important one?"

"The biggest in a medium-sized city."

"And does that suggest nothing to you, as a prospective newspaper man?"

"What? Write him up?"

"It would make a fairly sensational story."

"I couldn't do that. He was my friend. He wouldn't like it."

Mr. Gordon addressed his wedding-ring finger which was looking a bit
scarified. "Such an article as that, properly done, would go a long way
toward getting you a chance on this paper--Sit down, Mr. Banneker."

"You and I," said Banneker slowly and in the manner of the West, "can't
deal."

"Yes, we can." The managing editor threw his steel blade on the desk.
"Sit down, I tell you. And understand this. If you come on this
paper--I'm going to turn you over to Mr. Greenough, the city editor,
with a request that he give you a trial--you'll be expected to
subordinate every personal interest and advantage to the interests and
advantages of the paper, _except_ your sense of honor and fair-play. We
don't ask you to give that up; and if you do give it up, we don't want
you at all. What have you done besides be a hobo?"

"Railroading. Station-agent."

"Where were you educated?"

"Nowhere. Wherever I could pick it up."

"Which means everywhere. Ever read George Borrow?"

"Yes."

The heavy face of Mr. Gordon lighted up. "Ree-markable! Keep on. He's a
good offset to--to the daily papers. Writing still counts, on The
Ledger. Come over and meet Mr. Greenough."

The city editor unobtrusively studied Banneker out of placid,
inscrutable eyes, soft as a dove's, while he chatted at large about
theaters, politics, the news of the day. Afterward the applicant met the
Celtic assistant, Mr. Mallory, who broadly outlined for him the
technique of the office. With no further preliminaries Banneker found
himself employed at fifteen dollars a week, with Monday for his day off
and directions to report on the first of the month.

As the day-desk staff was about departing at six o'clock, Mr. Gordon
sauntered over to the city desk looking mildly apologetic.

"I practically had to take that young desert antelope on," said he.

"Too ingenuous to turn down," surmised the city editor.

"Ingenuous! He's heir to the wisdom of the ages. And now I'm afraid I've
made a ghastly mistake."

"Something wrong with him?"

"I've had his stuff in the Sunday Sphere looked up."

"Pretty weird?" put in Mallory, gliding into his beautifully