"Fairies," he muttered, "or the D.T's. What is this—a comic opera or a town? You are managing editor, Harry. I shall be city editor. Is there a city to edit? No matter."
"No," said Howe. He reached for the greasy pack of cards. "We draw for it. Come on. High wins."
"Jack," announced Mr. O'Neill.
"Deuce," smiled Howe. "What are your orders, sir?"
O'Neill passed one hand before his eyes.
"A steak," he muttered. "Well done. Mushroom sauce. French fried potatoes. I've always dreamed of running a paper some day. Hurry up with that steak."
"Forget your stomach," said Howe. "If a subordinate may make a suggestion, we must get out a newspaper. Ah, whom have we here?"
A stocky, red-faced man appeared from the inner room and stood regarding them.
"Where's Mears and Elliott?" he demanded.
"On a train, riding far," said O'Neill. "I am the new managing editor. What can I do for you?"