ghtest."

Mr. Melnor seized his overcoat from the hook.

Mr. Trinkle offered to hold it for him. The offer irritated the wealthy
owner of the _Star_, who suspected that the city editor meant to intimate
that he, Mr. Melnor, was too old to get into his own overcoat without
assistance.

"Never mind!" he said ungratefully. He fussed at the carnation in his
buttonhole, picked up his doggy walking stick, glanced over his carefully
pressed trousers and light coloured spats, strolled across to the mirror,
and leisurely drew on his new gloves.

"Mr. Trinkle," he began more complacently, "what I want you to always
bear in mind is that my pup nephews require a thorough grilling! I want
you to bully 'em! Suppress 'em! Squelch, nag, worry, sit on 'em!"

"I have," said the city editor with satisfaction. "They loathe me."

"Do it some more, then! I won't permit any nepotism in this office! If
you don't keep after 'em they'll turn into little beastly journalists
instead of into decent, self-respecting newspaper men! Have either of my
nephews attempted to write any more poetry for the Saturday supplement?"

"Young Sayre got away with some verses."

"Wha' d'ye do with 'em?" growled Mr. Melnor.

"Printed 'em."

"_Printed_ them! Are--you--craz-y?"

"Don't worry. Sayre got no signature out of me."

"But _why_ did you print?"

"Because those verses were too devilish good to lose. You must have read
them. It was that poem _Amourette_."

"Did _he_ do _that_?"

"Yes; and the entire sentimental press of the country is now copying it
without credit."

"My nephew wrote _Amourette_?" repeated Mr. Melnor with mingled emotions.

"He sure did. That poem seemed to deal a direct blow at this suffragette
strike. Several women subscribers sent in mash notes. I had a mind to
take advantage of one or two myself."

Pride and duty contended in the breast of Augustus Melnor; duty won.

"That's what I told you!" he snapped; "those pups will begin to write for
the magazines if you don't look out!"

"Well _I_ tell _you_ that they've no nose for news--no real instinct--and
they might as well write for the backs of the magazines."

"They've got to acquire news instinct! Bang it into 'em, Trinkle! Rub
their noses in it! I'll have those pups understand that if ever they
expect to see any inheritance from me they'll have to prepare themselves
to step into my shoes! They'll have to know the whole business--from
window-washer to desk!--and the