"Maybe you can do a great deal, Mr. Queed. On the other hand maybe I can do some little trifle for you. Which leg the boot is on nobody on earth can say at this juncture. I have ventured to call," said he, "as an ambassador from the morning Post of this city."
"The Post?"
The name instantly started Queed's memory to working; he recalled something about the Post—as yet, so it happened, only the copy of it he had read; and he turned and looked around with slow professorial amusement kindling in his eyes.
"Ah!" said he. "Possibly you are Colonel Cowles, the military political economist?"
West was more amused than ever. "No," said he, "on the contrary, West is the name, C.G. West—to correspond, you know, with the one on that card you have in your hand. I'll sit down here on the bed—shall I?—so that we can talk more comfortably. Sitting does help the flow of ideas so remarkably, don't you find? I am trespassing on your time," said he, "at the suggestion of—an acquaintance of yours, who has been telling me great things about your work."
Queed looked completely puzzled.
"The Post, Mr. Queed," went on West agreeably, "is always looking for men who can do exceptional work. Therefore, I have come to consider with you whether we might not make an arrangement to our mutual advantage."
At that the whole thing came back to the young man. He had agreed to take light remunerative work to pay his board, and now the day of reckoning was at hand. His heart grew heavy within him.
"Well," said he, exactly as he had said to the agent, "what have you to propose?"
"I thought of proposing, first, that you give me some idea of what you have done and can do on lines useful for a daily newspaper. How does that method of procedure strike you?"