"All right—show him in."
A moment later a round little man, with bulging eyes which peered near-sightedly and with a curiously worried expression from beneath a deeply furrowed forehead, seated himself at the desk behind which Roger was seated.
"Mr. Good," he began, "I ..."
Good, who had withdrawn his chair unobtrusively into a corner, spoke quietly.
"You're addressing Mr. Wynrod. He's the man you want to see."
The little man did not hesitate. "I see. Well, Mr. Wynrod, I am Mr. Burdick—Philemon P. Burdick. Possibly you've heard of me?" He paused, and when there was no response, proceeded, apparently neither surprised nor disappointed. "Evidently you have not. However, that is immaterial quite immaterial. The purpose of my call is not to acquaint you with myself, but with my work." He paused again.
"Yes?"
"I have come, sir, to seek your assistance—the assistance of your excellent publication, I should say."
Roger stirred a trifle uneasily, and Mr. Burdick, the worried expression in his eyes deepening, hurried on, as if fearful of interruption.
"First I wish to congratulate you upon The Dispatch. It is doing a noble work. The community owes you a debt of gratitude, sir, a very great debt."