"No," said Maxwell, gloomily, "there are some things that even a space-man can't do."
"You ought to go back on a salary," said Pinney, with compassion and superiority. "You'll ruin yourself trying to fill space, if you stick at trifles."
"Such as going and asking a man's family whether they think he was burnt up in a railroad accident, and trying to make copy out of their emotions? Thank you, I prefer ruin. If that's your scoop, you're welcome to it."
"They're not obliged to see you," urged Pinney. "You send in your name and—"
"They shut the door in your face, if they have the presence of mind."
"Well! What do you care if they do? It's all in the way of business, anyhow. It's not a personal thing."
"A snub's a pretty personal thing, Pinney. The reporter doesn't mind it, but it makes the man's face burn."
"Oh, very well! If you're going to let uncleanly scruples like that stand in your way, you'd better retire to the poet's corner, and stay there. You can fill that much space, any way; but you are not built for a reporter. When are you going to Boston?"
"Six, fifteen. I've got a scoop of my own."
"What is it?" asked Pinney, incredulously.