n
his paste pot or sudden raids upon his select file of time copy.

Into this sanctuary one afternoon in October came Conward. It was such
an afternoon as to set every office-worker at war with the gods; the
glories of the foothill October are known only in the foothill country,
and Dave, married though he was to his work, felt the call of the
sunshine and the open spaces. This was a time for fallen leaves and
brown grass and splashes of colour everywhere--nature's autumn colours,
bright, glorious, unsubdued. Only Dave knew how his blood leaped to
that suggestion. But the world must go on.

Conward's habitual cigarette hung from its accustomed short tooth, and
his round, florid face seemed puffier than usual. His aversion to any
exercise more vigorous than offered by a billiard cue was beginning to
reflect itself in a premature rotundity of figure. But his soft,
sedulous voice had not lost the note of friendly confidence which had
attracted Dave, perhaps against his better judgment, on the night of
their first meeting.

"'Lo, Dave," he said. "Alone?"

"Almost," said Dave, without looking up from his typewriter. Then,
turning, he kicked the door shut with his heel and said, "Shoot."

"This strenuous life is spoiling your good manners, Dave, my boy," said
Conward, lazily exhaling a thin cloud of smoke. "If work made a man
rich you'd die a millionaire. But it isn't work that makes men rich.
Ever think of that?"

"If a man does not become rich by work he has no right to become rich
at all," Dave retorted.

"What do you mean by that word 'right,' Dave? Define it."

"Haven't time. We go to press at four."

"That's the trouble with fellows like you," Conward continued. "You
haven't time. You stick too close to your jobs. You never see the
better chances lying all around. Now suppose you let them go to press
without you to-day, and you listen to me for a while."

Dave was about to throw him out when a gust of yearning for the open
spaces swept over him again. It was true enough. He was giving his
whole life to his paper. Promotion was slow, and there was no prospect
of a really big position at any time. He remembered Mr. Duncan's
remarks about newspaper training being the best preparation for
something else. With a sudden decision he closed his desk. "Shoot,"
he said again, but this time with less impatience.

"That's better," said Conward. "Have you ever thought of the future of
this town?"