A laugh from the younger Gale—a cruel, jeering laugh—brought a sudden chill to the boy’s heart.
“You cover police! Why, you’re only a kid!”
“A mere child,” chimed in the elder Gale, stroking his mutton-chop whiskers. “Come around again five or six years from now, and we may be able to find room for you on the reportorial staff of the Chronicle, my boy, but not before then.”
“But you said that if I made good with them pictures I was to have the job, at fifteen dollars a week,” cried Miggsy, a choke in his voice.
The proprietor of the Chronicle turned inquiringly to[Pg 48] his son. “Did I say that?” he asked. “Do you recall my saying anything to give this boy such a mistaken impression?”
“Certainly not,” was the reply. “I am afraid the boy is subject to hallucinations.”
“You certainly did say it!” cried Miggsy hotly. “And I’ve made good! I’ve brought you them pictures. What more do you want?”
Tears came to the boy’s eyes. “I’ve queered myself with the Bulletin,” he sobbed. “I can’t go back there now. I’ll be out of work, and me mudder needs every cent I make. Please, please, Mr. Gale, if you won’t let me cover police, find somethin’ else for me to do in the Chronicle office.”
The proprietor of the Chronicle shook his head. “I regret to say there are no vacancies,” he said coldly. “We couldn’t find room for you here even as an office boy. Besides, I am afraid you are not quite honest, young man. The fact that you have pilfered those pictures has made a bad impression upon me. It is my belief that a man or a boy who would steal for me would also steal from me.”
He turned to the younger Gale. “My son, I will trouble you to put this noisy boy outside,” he said.