"Then what am I to do?"
Trotter scarcely knew. But he had not forgotten the thing he had waited and hungered for this many a month. "Put me on your staff, first, so I can be acting for somebody."
Still again the editor smiled. "You're set on being one of us, aren't you?"
"I've got to have something behind me before I can tackle a job like this."
"All right," was the wearily indulgent answer, "call yourself one of us. Now what else do you want?"
"I guess you'd better give me one of your workmen for a lookout," suggested the narrow-chested youth.
"Why a workman? Why not Kendrick or Gilman?"
"All I want is a husky man to see I'm not interfered with from outside," replied the new and jealous god of the press world. "Then I'll land the story myself."
The managing editor's finger end was once more on the buzzer. "I'll give you Tiernan of the job room. He's Irish, and weighs two hundred. Is there anything else?"
"I s'pose I'll need a gun," ruminated the mild-eyed youth. "But
I'm willing to buy that with my own money."