“What do I mean? I mean that you’ve got to employ strategy. When a soldier gets in a tight fix with the enemy, he uses the brains with which he is endowed for the purpose of extricating himself. So it is with the lawyer, with the business man and with mortals generally—”
“What in the world are you driving at?” interrupted Herbert.
“I know what I’m driving at,” replied the other. “Listen to what I have to say, and then try to answer me intelligently. Can you write a good Sunday newspaper story?”
“Can I? Why you know—”
“Of course, of course I know,” cut in Tomlin, “I only asked you that question as a matter of form. I want you to go out and get a first-class special story. Write it up in your most attractive style, typewrite it on the machine we have in this room, and give it to me by this time to-morrow.”
The hearty manner of his friend furnished just the sort of inspiration that Herbert needed at that particular time. He went out during the day and visited the various places where he would be likely to obtain material for a special story. It grew quite late and he was still without anything upon which he could base the sort of article that would answer to the vivid description furnished by Tomlin. On his way back to his room he stopped at an Old Man’s Home to enjoy a chat with the superintendent, who had been his friend while he was on the Argus, and had sometimes rendered him valuable assistance.
“Anything doing about here, Smith?” he asked.
“No,” replied the superintendent, “not a thing. This is the slowest week we have had for a long while. It’s as dull as dishwater.”
“Sorry to hear that,” responded Herbert; “I thought in a large community of this kind something was always happening.”
“No,” responded the other, “nothing worth printing. I’ve got a good joke on one of the old fellows upstairs, however. He was knocked out by a bat last night.”