"Mebbe you have, but I'm not one of them."
The editor remained silent for a few moments. He tapped on his desk with an ivory paper-knife and glanced quickly now and then at John.
"What part of Ulster do you come from?" he demanded.
"Ballyards."
"I've heard of it," Mr. Clotworthy continued. "It's not much of a place, is it?"
John flared up angrily. "It's better than Cookstown any day," he said.
"Who told you I came from Cookstown?"
"Never mind who told me. If you don't want to give me a job on your paper, you needn't. There's plenty of other papers in this town!..."
"That temper of yours'll get you into serious bother one of these days, young fellow," said Mr. Clotworthy. "I'm willing to give you work on the paper if you're fit to do it, but don't run away with the notion that you've only to walk in here and say you're an Ulsterman, and you'll immediately get a position. What sort of work do you want to do? You know our paper, I suppose? Well, how would you improve it?"
John opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say a word, the editor stopped him.