"For the love of Mike! Are you here again?" he demanded.
"I thought you might like to have some space work—"
"By heavens! You're persistent."
"Yes."
"We editors are an unfeeling lot, aren't we?" the fat young man inquired. "No temperament, no appreciation." He laughed noiselessly.
"Give me a job," Anderson cried, his voice breaking huskily. "I'll make good. I'll do anything."
"How long do you intend to keep bothering me?" questioned Burns.
Anderson's cheeks were blue and the backs of his legs were trembling from weakness, but he repeated, stolidly: "Give me a job. I—I won't bother you after that. I'll make good, see if I don't."
"You think well of yourself, don't you?"
"If you thought half as well of me as I do," Paul assured him, "I'd be your star reporter."