CHAPTER XXIII.
THE SAME GAME.
Miss Melba Gale, having occasion to consult her uncle about a household matter which required immediate attention, decided to visit him at his office.
As she neared the Chronicle Building, she encountered a fourteen-year-old boy who was sobbing as though his young heart were breaking.
Even if this boy had been a total stranger to Melba, the chances are that she would have stopped to inquire the cause of his unrestrained grief, for she was the most tender-hearted and sympathetic of girls. But the fact that she recognized him as Fred Carroll’s office boy, who had on several occasions been the bearer of missives from that young man to her, added greatly to her interest.
“Why, Miggsy,” she exclaimed, stepping up to the grief-stricken lad. “What is the matter?”
The weeping boy removed his knuckles from his eyes long enough to learn the identity of his fair interrogator.
“I want to die!” he wailed. “I’ve queered meself with the Bulletin, and I’ve been handed a lemon by the Chronicle. I want to die. It ain’t no use livin’ any more.”
Melba stared at him in astonishment, unable to make head or tail of this lament. Then she laid her small, gloved hand gently on his shoulder.
“Don’t be silly, Miggsy,” she said softly. “You mustn’t talk in that wild fashion. Come with me to the drug store across the street, and tell me all about it while we’re drinking an ice-cream soda.”
But Miggsy shook his head disconsolately. Ice-cream sodas, although he was exceedingly partial to them under other and happier circumstances, did not appeal to him in the slightest in his present state of mine.