A slenderly-built young man, whose red face needed a shave and whose clothes, though wrinkled and unbrushed, shrieked of quality, came stumbling up the stairs in such hot haste as was possible in his condition, and without ceremony or announcement burst into the room where Bobby Burnit, with that day’s issue of the Bulletin spread out before him, was trying earnestly to get a professional idea of the proper contents of a newspaper.
“Great goods, old man!” said the stranger. “I want to congratulate you on your lovely nerve,” and seizing Bobby’s hand he shook it violently.
“Thanks,” said Bobby, not quite sure whether to be amused or resentful. “Who are you?”
“I’m Dillingham,” announced the red-faced young man with a cheerful smile.
Bobby was about to insist upon further information, when Mr. Jolter came in to introduce Brown, who had not yet met Mr. Burnit.
“Dill,” drawled Brown, with a twinkle in his eye, “how much money have you?”
“Money to burn; money in every pocket,” asserted Mr. Dillingham; “money to last for ever,” and he jammed both hands in his trousers’ pockets.
It was an astonishing surprise to Mr. Dillingham, after groping in those pockets, to find that he brought up only a dollar bill in his left hand and forty-five cents in silver in his right. He was still contemplating in awed silence this perplexing fact when Brown handed him a five-dollar bill.
“Now, you run right out and get stewed to the eyebrows again,” directed Brown. “Get properly pickled and have it over with, then show up here in the morning with a headache and get to work. We want you to take charge of the Sam Stone exposé, and in to-morrow’s Bulletin we want the star introduction of your life.”
“Do you mean to say you’re going to trust the whole field conduct of this campaign to that chap?” asked Bobby, frowning, when Dillingham had gone.