y as might have stepped out of an East End London
pawn shop, presented herself framed in the doorway of the reporter's
room. She plainly belonged to the immigrant section of Smelter City.
The news-editor never took his eyes from Bat's copy. They were eyes
made for drilling holes into the motives behind facts. Bat emitted a
whistle that was a laugh.

"Hullo," he said. "I knew they were coming on younger every year; but
I didn't know we had gone into the kindergarten business yet. You
don't want a job? Now don't tell me you want a job?"

The little person lifted a pair of very sober eyes beneath the brim of
some faded plush headgear.

"Is thus th' rha-porther's room?"

"Sure! you bet!" Bat wheeled on both heels. The little person looked
at him very steadily and solemnly.

"A' wannt," she said in that mongrel dialect of German-American and
Cockney-English, "A wawnt an iteem."

"Sure," says Bat, "nothing easier."

"Wull thur be eny chaarge?"

"Not for ladies," says Bat, saluting, hand to hat, and grinning more
sleepily than ever.

"Then, A wull guve it t' y': wull y' write it, sor?"

"Sure!" Bat squared himself to one of the reporters' high desks.

"Mestriss Leez-y O'Fannigan," dictated the little publicity agent.

"Miss O'Funny Girl," with a look to his fat cheeks as of a bag blown
full of air.

"No Sor, O'Fan-ni-gan-"

"Perhaps," said Bat, "You'd like to know we're in the same boat, except
that you're seeking exactly what I'm trying to avoid, Miss O'Finnigan?"

"Wull dance t' night--" continued the little publicity seeker.

"Will she dance in her copper-toe boots?" asks Bat.

"Wull dance at the H---- i-o-f lodge meetin' at--"

"That'll do, get her out of this," ordered the news-man. "It grows
worse every day. Every damphool thinks the world is aching for an
interview with himself, from the mining fakirs to the Shanty Town
brats: it's seeped down to the kids. You go home, kid, and tell your
mother to spank you special extra--"

They heard the fat little legs stumping down the stairs. "That kid
belongs to Shanty Town. She dances for the bar room buffers now;
she'll dance later, like you and me, Bat, for bigger bluffers. Freedom
of the press! Damn it, I'm sick of the bunco game, Bat--"

"Draw it easy," drawled Bat. "If you're sick of it, it's dead easy to
get out. I guess the kid is doing the same thing as you and me: 'Give
us this day our daily bread.' How's the story? Will you g