r. Petheram?"

"Mr. Petheram's everything. He calls himself the editor, but he's really
everything except office-boy, and I expect he'll be that next week.
When I started with the paper, there was quite a large staff. But it got
whittled down by degrees till there was only Mr. Petheram and myself. It
was like the crew of the 'Nancy Bell.' They got eaten one by one, till
I was the only one left. And now I've gone. Mr. Petheram is doing the
whole paper now."

"How is it that he can't get anything better to do?" Roland said.

"He has done lots of better things. He used to be at Carmelite House,
but they thought he was too old."

Roland felt relieved. He conjured up a picture of a white-haired elder
with a fatherly manner.

"Oh, he's old, is he?"

"Twenty-four."

There was a brief silence. Something in the girl's expression stung
Roland. She wore a rapt look, as if she were dreaming of the absent
Petheram, confound him. He would show her that Petheram was not the only
man worth looking rapt about.

He rose.

"Would you mind giving me your address?" he said.

"Why?"

"In order," said Roland carefully, "that I may offer you your former
employment on 'Squibs.' I am going to buy it."

After all, your man of dash and enterprise, your Napoleon, does have
his moments. Without looking at her, he perceived that he had bowled
her over completely. Something told him that she was staring at him,
open-mouthed. Meanwhile, a voice within him was muttering anxiously, "I
wonder how much this is going to cost."

"You're going to buy 'Squibs!'"

Her voice had fallen away to an awestruck whisper.

"I am."

She gulped.

"Well, I think you're wonderful."

So did Roland.

"Where will a letter find you?" he asked.

"My name is March. Bessie March. I'm living at twenty-seven Guildford
Street."

"Twenty-seven. Thank you. Good morning. I will communicate with you in
due course."

He raised his hat and walked away. He had only gone a few steps, when
there was a patter of feet behind him. He turned.

"I--I just wanted to thank you," she said.

"Not at all," said Roland. "Not at all."

He went on his way, tingling with just triumph. Petheram? Who was
Petheram? Who, in the name of goodness, was Petheram? He had put
Petheram in his proper place, he rather fancied. Petheram, forsooth.
Laughable.

A copy of the current number of 'Squibs,' purchased at a book-stall,
informed him, after a minute search to find the editori