om
the Note Book of a Dreamer.

THE REBEL FOLLOWS THE RAMIFICATIONS OF BIG BUSINESS AND FINDS THAT THE
PILLARS OF SOCIETY ARE NOT IN POLITICS FOR THEIR HEALTH

Part 1

"Hmp! Want to be a reporter, do you?"

Warren, city editor on the Advocate, leaned back in his chair and looked
Jeff over sharply.

"Yes."

"It's a hell of a life. Better keep out."

"I'd like to try it."

"Any experience?"

"Only correspondence. I've had two years at college."

The city editor snorted. He had the unreasoning contempt for college men
so often found in the old-time newspaper hack.

"Then you don't want to be a reporter. You want to be a journalist," he
jeered.

"They kicked me out," Jeff went on quietly.

"Sounds better. Why?"

Jeff hesitated. "I got drunk."

"Can't use you," Warren cut in hastily.

"I've quit--sworn off."

The city editor was back on the job, his eyes devouring copy. "Heard
that before. Nothing to it," he grunted.

"Give me a trial. I'll show you."

"Don't want a man that drinks. Office crowded with 'em already."

Jeff held his ground. For five minutes the attention of Warren was
focused on his work.

Suddenly he snapped out, "Well?"

He met Farnum's ingratiating smile. "You haven't told me yet what to
start doing."

"I told you I didn't want you."

"But you do. I'm on the wagon."

"For how long?" jeered the city editor.

"For good."

Warren sized him up again. He saw a cleareyed young fellow without
a superfluous ounce of flesh on him, not rugged but with a look of
strength in the slender figure and the thin face. This young man somehow
inspired confidence.

"Sent in that Colby story to us, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Rotten story. Not half played up. Report to Jenkins at the City Hall."

"Now?"

"Now. Think I meant next year?"

The city editor was already lost in the reading of more copy.

Inside of half an hour Jeff was at work on his first assignment. Some
derelict had committed suicide under the very shadow of the City Hall.
Upon the body was a note scrawled on the bask of a dirty envelope.

Sick and out of work. Notify Henry Simmons, 237 River Street, San
Francisco.

Jenkins, his hands in his pockets, looked at the body indifferently and
turned the story over to the cub with a nod of his head.

"Go to it. Half a stick," he said.

From another reporter Jeff learned how much half a stick is. He wrote
the account. When he had read it Jenkins glanced sharply at