th a smile.

CHAPTER VIII

THE GREATEST GAME IN THE WORLD

On the day set for the beginning of Roger Wynrod's business career, Good
introduced him to the more important members of the staff, all of whom
expressed their profound pleasure at making his acquaintance, and
without further conversation departed to more pressing duties. Their
indifference rather nettled him, but he consoled himself by ascribing it
to the high pressure under which newspaper offices notoriously laboured.
He was quite mollified, however, when he reached the door of the office
he was to occupy, and found his name prominently engrossed upon it in
letters of gilt. He was also much pleased with the furniture,
particularly the desk, a tremendous affair of mahogany, filled with all
manner of alluring receptacles. The office, he was gratified to note,
while not large, appeared more or less private.

"Now then," said Good, "here's your shop. Get to work. I'll be around
the building somewhere if you need me."

Jenkins, the Business Manager, had suggested, rather diffidently, that a
good way to begin to work would be to acquire familiarity with the
files of the paper. So, after making a cursory examination of his more
material surroundings, he attacked the huge volumes which he found on
his table, containing, he was sure, copies of _The Dispatch_ for at
least a century back.

He pursued the task diligently enough, at first, but it was not long
before his interest flagged. One issue seemed painfully like another. It
was very quiet in the little room, and as he sat wearily fingering the
dusty sheets he felt curiously isolated and futile. The conviction
gradually settled upon him that business was hardly as entertaining as
it had been described. By eleven o'clock his patience was exhausted.
With a word or two, more vigorous than elegant, he swept the bulky tomes
upon the floor, and went in search of Jenkins.

The Business Manager ran his hand through his hair helplessly when Roger
stated his grievance.

"I've been awful busy, Mr. Wynrod," he said apologetically. "If you'll
only be patient. Just a day or two--rushed to death just now, don't you
know."

"In a day or two?" cried Roger. "Good Lord, man--two _hours_ have been
too much for me. Something's simply got to happen or I'll go nutty!"

Jenkins laughed, though not very mirthfully. Inwardly he was a seething
cauldron of wrath at the fate which had afflicted him with so useless
an append