Bat laid one cigar at the
editor's place and took a fresh one for himself.

"Hullo, Bat," bubbled the telegraph man, dashing from the composing
room in his shirt sleeves, "We've just been having a yell of an
argument about the elements of success." He seated himself and whipped
out a match to light the cigar. Bat was clicking his cigar case open
and shut. This editor was all nerves too. Nerves seemed to go with
the job; but these nerves were not jangled. He leaned back in his
swing chair with one boot against the desk. "What makes a man
successful, anyway? It isn't ability. Your news-man across the way
could buy our office out with brains; but gee whitaker, he's worse than
a dose of bitters! Now take your Senator, he hasn't either the
education or the brains of lots of our cub reporters, here!" He paused
nibbling his cigar end. "Yet, he's successful. We aren't, except in a
sort of doggon-hack-horse way. You're next to the old man, Bat, what
do you say makes him successful?"

Bat clicked the cigar case shut and put it in his pocket.

"Two things: he's a specialist; he delivers the goods no other man can
deliver; and he doesn't fool any time away by bucking into a buzz saw,
fighting windmills and that sort of thing, way you fellows 'agin the
Government' do."

The telegraph man removed his cigar.

"What do you mean by 'delivers the goods no other man can deliver'? Do
you mean the pork barrel?"

"No," said Bat, "I don't, though the pork barrel is a d--ee--d
essential part of the game. Here's what I mean; when you came to this
Valley, there was nothing doing. We had mines; but we hadn't a
smelter! Well, Senator got the coking coal for a smelting site and the
big developers came in. Other men couldn't, wouldn't or didn't dare to
do it! He did it. He delivered the goods and got the big fellows
interested."

"He stole 'em, those coal lands. He jugged 'em thro' Land Office
records with false entries." The telegraph man had lowered his voice.

"We don't call 'em stolen when it's been the making of the Valley."

"No, because the Smelter is a sacred cow mustn't be touched for the
sake of the grease."

"Then, there was nothing doing in lumber; big fellows wouldn't come in
and develop. Well, Moyese got 'em the timber tracts for a song. Other
men couldn't, wouldn't or didn't dare. He delivered the goods--"

"The courage of the highwayman," commented the wire editor with a puff.

"We don't call