"Star hell!" testily cried the editor. "We haven't got such a thing. They don't know they're alive, except on pay-day. Look at this blond girl at the Morgue—they've wasted two weeks on that case." He paused suddenly, then his soft lips spread, showing his sharp, white teeth. Modifying his tone, he continued: "Say, I rather like you, Anderson, you're such a blamed nuisance. You've half convinced me that you're a genius."
The younger man's hunger, which had given up in despair, raised its head and bit into his vitals sharply.
"Maybe I—"
"I've a notion to give you a chance."
"That's all I want," the caller quavered, in a panic. "Just give me a toe-hold, that's all," His voice broke in spite of his effort to hold it steady. Burns wasn't a bad sort, after all; just grouchy and irritable. Perhaps this was merely his way.
Burns continued: "Well, I will give you an assignment, a good assignment, too, and if you cover it I'll put you on permanently. I'll do more than that, I'll pay you what we pay our best man, if you make good. That's fair, isn't it?"
He smiled benignly, and the soon-to-be reporter's wits went capering off in a hysterical stampede. Anderson felt the desire to wring the fellow's hand.
"All that counts in this office is efficiency," the latter went on. "We play no favorites. When a man delivers the goods we boost him; when he fails we fire him. There's no sentiment here, and I hold my job merely because I'm the best man in the shop. Can you go to work to-night?"
"Why—why—yes, sir!"
"Very well. That's the spirit I like. You can take your time on the story, and you needn't come back till you bring it."