al page, that the
offices of the paper were in Fetter Lane. It was evidence of his exalted
state of mind that he proceeded thither in a cab.

Fetter Lane is one of those streets in which rooms that have only just
escaped being cupboards by a few feet achieve the dignity of offices.
There might have been space to swing a cat in the editorial sanctum of
'Squibs,' but it would have been a near thing. As for the outer office,
in which a vacant-faced lad of fifteen received Roland and instructed
him to wait while he took his card in to Mr. Petheram, it was a mere
box. Roland was afraid to expand his chest for fear of bruising it.

The boy returned to say that Mr. Petheram would see him.

Mr. Petheram was a young man with a mop of hair, and an air of almost
painful restraint. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and the table before
him was heaped high with papers. Opposite him, evidently in the act of
taking his leave was a comfortable-looking man of middle age with a
red face and a short beard. He left as Roland entered and Roland was
surprized to see Mr. Petheram spring to his feet, shake his fist at
the closing door, and kick the wall with a vehemence which brought down
several inches of discolored plaster.

"Take a seat," he said, when he had finished this performance. "What can
I do for you?"

Roland had always imagined that editors in their private offices were
less easily approached and, when approached, more brusk. The fact was
that Mr. Petheram, whose optimism nothing could quench, had mistaken him
for a prospective advertiser.

"I want to buy the paper," said Roland. He was aware that this was an
abrupt way of approaching the subject, but, after all, he did want to
buy the paper, so why not say so?

Mr. Petheram fizzed in his chair. He glowed with excitement.

"Do you mean to tell me there's a single book-stall in London which has
sold out? Great Scott, perhaps they've all sold out! How many did you
try?"

"I mean buy the whole paper. Become proprietor, you know."

Roland felt that he was blushing, and hated himself for it. He ought to
be carrying this thing through with an air. Mr. Petheram looked at him
blankly.

"Why?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know," said Roland. He felt the interview was going all
wrong. It lacked a stateliness which this kind of interview should have
had.

"Honestly?" said Mr. Petheram. "You aren't pulling my leg?"

Roland nodded. Mr. Petheram appeared to struggle with his conscience,