He stopped in one sunny April afternoon at Mr. Burgess' office. It was on the ground floor of the three-story Appeal building in the public square. Mr. Burgess, a fat man, slightly bald, looked at him quizzically over his steel rimmed spectacles. What little hair he had was gray.
"So you think you would like to go into the newspaper business, do you?" queried Burgess.
"I'd like to try my hand at it," replied the boy. "I'd like to see whether I like it."
"I can tell you right now there's very little in it. Your father says you like to write."
"I'd like to well enough, but I don't think I can. I wouldn't mind learning type-setting. If I ever could write I'd be perfectly willing to."
"When do you think you'd like to start?"
"At the end of school, if it's all the same to you."
"It doesn't make much difference. I'm not really in need of anybody, but I could use you. Would you be satisfied with five a week?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, come in when you are ready. I'll see what I can do."