ight, had borrowed what sums of small change he
could and under cover of friendly night had moved on to parts unknown,
leaving us dazzled by the careless, somewhat patronizing brilliance of
his manner, and stuffed to our earlobes with tales of the splendid,
adventurous, bohemian lives that newspaper men in New York lived.

"Well, I know this," put in little Pinky Gilfoil, who was red-headed,
red-freckled and red-tempered: "I'd give my right leg to pull off that
Bullard story as a scoop. No, not my right leg--a reporter needs all the
legs he's got; but I'd give my right arm and throw in an eye for good
measure. It would be the making of a reporter in this town--he'd have
'em all eating out of his hand after that." He licked his lips. Even the
bare thought of the thing tasted pretty good to Pinky.

"Now you're whistling!" chimed Ike Webb. "The fellow who single-handed
got that tale would have a job on this paper as long as he lived. The
chief would just naturally have to hand him more money. In New York,
though, he'd get a big cash bonus besides, an award they call it up
there. I'd go anywhere and do anything and take any kind of a chance to
land that story as an exclusive--yes, or any other big story."

To all this the major, it appeared, had been listening, for now he spoke
up in a pretty fair imitation of his old impressive manner:

"But, young gentlemen--pardon me--do you seriously think--any of
you--that any honorarium, however large, should or could be sufficient
temptation to induce one in your--in our profession--to give utterance
in print to a matter that he had learned, let us say, in confidence?
And suppose also that by printing it he brought suffering or disgrace
upon innocent parties. Unless one felt that he was serving the best ends
of society--unless one, in short, were actuated by the highest of human
motives--could one afford to do such a thing? And, under any
circumstances, could one violate a trust--could one violate the common
obligation of a gentleman's rules of deportment----"

"Major," broke in Ike Webb earnestly, "the way I look at it, a reporter
can't afford too many of the luxuries you're mentioning. His duty, it
seems to me, is to his paper first and the rest of the world afterward.
His paper ought to be his mother and his father and all his family. If
he gets a big scoop--no matter how he gets it or where he gets it--he
ought to be able to figure out some way of getting it into print. It's