pe--none of your Calcutta-made
stuff."

"Pays to bring it out, does it?" asked Hilda inattentively, copying her
letter.

"Pays the advertisers." There were ingratiating qualities in the
managerial smile. Hilda inspected them coldly.

"There's your notice of withdrawal," she said. "Good-morning."

"Think of that new type, and how lovely Jimmy Finnigan's ad will look in
it."

"That's all right. Good-morning." Miss Howe approached the door, the
blue glance of Macandrew pursuant.

"No notices for two Wednesdays, eh? We'll have to see about that. I
was thinkin' of transferrin' your space to the third page; it's a more
advantageous position--and no extra charge--but ye'll not mention it to
Jimmy."

Miss Howe lifted an arrogant chin. "Do I understand you'll do that, and
guarantee regular notices, if we leave the advertisement with you?"

Mr. Macandrew looked at her expressively, and tore, with a gesture of
moderated recklessness, the notice of withdrawal in two.

"Rest easy," he said, "I'll see about it. I'd go the len'th of attendin'
myself to-night, if ye could spare two three extra places."

"Moderate Macandrew!"

"Moderate enough. I've got some frien's stayin' in the same place with
me from Behar--indigo people. I was thinkin' I'd give them a treat, if
three places c'd be spared next to the Chronicle seats."

"We do Lady Whippleton to-night and the booking's been heavy. Five is
too many, Mr. Macandrew, even if you promised not to write the notice
yourself."

"I might pay for one;" Macandrew drew red cartwheels on his
blotting-pad.

"Those seats are sure to be gone. I'll send you a box. Stanhope's as bad
as he can be with dysentery--you might make a local out of that. Be sure
to mention he can't see anybody--it's absurd the way Calcutta people
want to be paid."

"A box'll be Grand," said Mr. Macandrew. "I'll see ye get plenty of
ancores. Can ye manage the door? Good-day, then."

Hilda stepped out on the landing. The heavy, regular thud of the presses
came up from below. They were printing the edition that took the world's
news to planters' bungalows in the jungle of Assam and the lonely
policeman on the edge of Manipore. The smell of the newspaper of to-day
and of yesterday, and of a year ago, stood in the air; through an open
door she saw the dusty, uneven edges of files of them, piled on the
floor. Three or four messengers squatted beside the wall, with slumbrous
heads between their knees. Occasional