"I've had no experience on a paper," he replied, "but I've done a lot of writing in a private way."
"You're practically a new man, then." The editor thought for a moment, and David eagerly watched his face. It was business-like, but kindly. "Why, I guess I might take the trouble to lick a man into shape—if he seemed to have the right stuff in him. Anyhow, I might give you a trial. But you're not very young to be just beginning the game. What've you been working at?"
David felt the guilty colour warming his cheeks. "Writing."
"All the time?"
He tried to speak naturally. "The last few years I have been trying to do some—manual work."
"Here in the city?"
"No. Out of town."
The editor could not but notice David's flushed face and its strained look. He eyed David narrowly, and his brow wrinkled in thought. David strove to force a natural look upon his face. "Aldrich," the editor said to himself, "Aldrich—David Aldrich you said. That sounds familiar. Where have I heard that in the last few days?"
"I don't know," said David, his lips dry; but he thought of a paragraph he had read on the ride from prison announcing his discharge.
"O-o-h!" said the editor, and his eyes sharpened. David understood. The editor had also remembered the paragraph.