t to know more of her, and when she had come in
again to consult him, he said: "Wait a moment, please. How long have
you been connected with this paper?"

"About three months, regularly."

"Had you worked on any other paper in the city?"

"No, sir; I have never worked on any other paper."

"Have you lived here long?"

"No, sir, I have been here only a short time. I am from Missouri."

"You didn't come alone, did you?"

She glanced at him quickly and answered: "I came alone, but I live
with my aunt."

She returned to her work, and she must have discovered that he was
watching her, for the next day he saw that she had moved her desk.

Henry had applied for membership in the Press Club, and one morning a
reporter told him that he had been elected.

"Was there any opposition?" the editor asked.

"Not after the boys learned that you had been a reporter. You can go
over at any time and sign the constitution."

"I'll go now. Suppose you come with me."

The Press Club of Chicago is a democracy. Money holds but little
influence within its precincts, for its ablest members are generally
"broke." There are no rules hung on its walls, no cool ceremonies to
be observed. Its atmosphere invites a man to be natural, and warns him
to conceal his vanities. Among that body of men no pretense is sacred.
Here men of Puritan ancestry find it well to curb a puritanical
instinct. A stranger may be shocked by a snort of profanity, but if he
listens he will hear a bright and poetic blending of words rippling
after it. A great preacher, whose sermons are read by the world, sat
one day in the club, uttering the slow and heavy sentences of an
oracle. He touched his finger tips together. He was discoursing on
some phase of life; and an old night police reporter listened for a
moment and said, "Rats!" The great man was startled. Accustomed to
deliver his theories to a silent congregation, he was astonished to
find that his wisdom could so irreverently be questioned. The reporter
meant no disrespect, but he could not restrain his contempt for so
presuming a piece of ignorance. He turned to the preacher and showed
him where his theories were wrong. With a pin he touched the bubble of
the great man's presumption, and it was done kindly, for when the
sage arose to go he said: "I must confess that I have learned
something. I fear that a preacher's library does not contain all that
is worth knowing." And this, more than any of his sermons,