“That doesn’t matter,” was the reassuring response. “Age is of no consequence. It is ability that counts, Mr. Miggles.”
“And I ain’t had an experience at reporting,” Miggles went on, hanging his head. “I’ve been doing—er—inside work.”
Gale received this admission with a pleasant smile. “Lack of experience isn’t of much consequence, either, Mr. Miggles,” he said. “As a matter of fact, we prefer to take on green reporters and train them to our ways. So don’t let those things worry you, old man.”
Miggsy’s face lighted up at these words. “All right, then,” he cried eagerly. “If that’s the case, I’m on.”
With a smile of satisfaction, Gale hurriedly led the boy to the Chronicle Building, and bade him wait in the editorial room while he went in to have a short preliminary talk with his father in the latter’s private office.
A few minutes later Gale came to the door of the private office, and beckoned to Miggsy to enter.
“I’ve paved the way for you,” he whispered to the boy. “Put up a good front, now, and you’ll surely get the job.”
The old gentleman with the white mutton-chop whiskers who was seated at a desk in the center of the room smiled benevolently at his youthful visitor.
“How do you do, young man?” he said. “Pray be seated. My son has been telling me that you would like a position on the Chronicle’s reportorial staff.”
“If you please, sir,” returned Miggsy, sitting on the extreme edge of a chair and fidgeting nervously with his hat. Not that Miggsy was habitually shy, or easily put out of countenance, but the momentousness of this occasion had got upon his nerves.