ally a practical man. He has no
dreams of improving the race, no gleaming visions of a community
relieved of poverty and kindred ills.

Northcliffe was for years Lloyd George's most bitter public critic. He
has now become his ally in the government of the British Empire.
Despite the difference in their outlook on life, there are wonderful
resemblances between the two men. There are sympathies, too.
Northcliffe early recognized that Lloyd George was a person to be
watched, not because of his speeches, but because he was a man of
action and a man who got things done. On the other hand, Lloyd George,
under cruel attacks, once said, reflectively: "What a power this man
Northcliffe might be if he chose! He could carry through a political
project while we were thinking about it. We talk of tackling the
question of housing the poor people of this country. He could do it
single-handed." To this a companion pointed out that he was asking too
much of Northcliffe; he had not it in him.

What is this newspaper magnate like to look at? He is a
heavy-shouldered man with a big, broad forehead, a massive jowl, and an
aquiline nose. His wide mouth droops at the corners. In repose there
is something of a scowl on his face, which is intensified in
displeasure as his head shoots forward aggressively and almost
wolfishly. And yet, on the other hand, in his pleasanter moments he
has a boyishness and vivacity which are attractive. Nearly all who
have been in his office, whether they are at present in his employ or
not, will tell you he is a delightful man to work with. He will come
into the reporters' room of the _Daily Mail_, sit on the edge of the
table, smoke a cigarette, and talk to the men as if he were one of
themselves. He likes them. They like him. Stories cluster round him.
A young writer went out to investigate a series of happenings in a
Midland town, was rather badly hoaxed, and was responsible for a good
deal of ridicule directly against the paper. This is a deadly sin for
a newspaper man, and the chiefs of the office were naturally severe
about the matter. The writer in question, feeling that his career on
the paper was over, went out of the office to lunch and, as bad luck
would have it, encountered Northcliffe's automobile drawing up at the
entrance. He knew "Alfred," as the proprietor is called, would be
fuming, and was the last man on earth whom it was desirable to meet in
such a mood. The young fellow