keep two books flying round the room
from hand to hand without falling--a game that was never successful. A
bundle of unopened newspapers, in postal wrappers, lay at the window-end
of the table, and also a few letters.

Presently the door was opened and Mr. Wilfrid Yardley, sub-editor,
stepped in. He was a man of sallow complexion, with very black hair and
dark, restless eyes that suggested worry. He wore a light yellowish
summer suit and a straw hat. For a moment he paused on seeing Henry,
who, as he entered, was examining the literary treasures in the
bookcase.

"Good morning!" he said. "You are Mr. Charles, I suppose?" and he held
out his hand to Henry. "You are early. The reporters have no hours. I'm
the only one on the literary staff who is chained to the desk."

He took off his hat and jacket, exchanging the latter for a ragged thing
that hung on one of the pegs along the wall. Then he seated himself at
the end of the table, and commenced opening the newspapers that lay
there. All the while his eyes flitted about in his head as if he feared
that someone would pounce on him unawares. Evidently a quiet fellow and
a conscientious worker, but a trifle too nervous to have much character.

"Mr. Springthorpe has not fixed any work for you?" he said to Henry,
with questioning eyebrows, while slitting an envelope.

"No, nothing has been arranged. I suppose I'm to do anything that turns
up."

"Bertram--that is our chief reporter--will want you to help him, I
suppose. But I'm sure I could do with assistance. You can't learn too
much, however, so just try your hand here," and he marked several items
in a daily paper referring to happenings in the Midland counties. "Try
to rewrite those pars, keeping in all the facts, but only using about
one-third of the space in each case. Sit down in that chair there, and
perhaps you'll find a pen that suits you among those, though I never
can."

Henry acquitted himself very well according to Mr. Yardley, and found
the latter so considerate in his advice that he immediately conceived a
liking for him.

After all, Trevor Smith and Edgar Winton were raw youths, but here was a
man of thirty-five at least, and there was no "side" about him. He
seemed capable and intelligent. Why, then, did he stick in Wheelton?
Would Henry only reach a similar post when he was his age? These
thoughts came to him as he watched the earnest face of Yardley poring
over reporters' copy, "licking it into s