ing our story
had come down from the Superintendent's office the change would be
officially announced.

One day when the Prince was at the depot "making the train" with his
notebook in his hand, jotting down the names of the people who got on or
off the cars, the general superintendent saw him, and called the youth
to his car.

"Well, kid," said the most worshipful one in his teasingest voice,
"What's the latest news at the general offices to-day?"

The Young Prince turned his head on one side like a little dog looking
up at a big dog, and replied:

"Well, if you must know it, you're going to get the can, though we
ain't printing it till you've got a chance to land somewhere else."

The longer the Prince worked the more clothes he bought. One of his most
effective creations was a blue serge coat and vest, and a pair of white
duck trousers linked by emotional red socks to patent-leather shoes.
This confection, crowned with a wide, saw-edged straw hat with a blue
band, made him the brightest bit of colour on the sombre streets of our
dull town. He wore his collars so high that he had to order them of a
drummer, and as he came down street from the depot, riding magnificently
with the 'bus-driver, after the train had gone, the clerks used to cry:
"Look out for your horses; the steam-piano is coming!"

But it didn't affect the Young Prince. If he happened to have time and
was feeling like it, he would climb down over the rear end of the 'bus
and chase his tormentor into the back of the store where he worked, but
generally the Young Prince took no heed of the jibes of the envious. He
was conscious that he was cutting a figure, and this consciousness made
him proud. But his pride did not cut down the stack of copy that he
laid on the table every morning and every noon. He couldn't spell and he
was innocent of grammar, and every line he wrote had to be edited, but
he got the news. He was every where. He rushed down the streets after an
item, dodging in and out of stores and offices like a streak of chain
lightning having a fit. But it was beneath his dignity to run to fires.
When the fire-bell rang, he waited nonchalantly on the corner near the
fire-department house, and as the crowds parted to let the horses dash
by on the dead run, he would walk calmly to the middle of the street,
put his notebook in his pocket, and, as the fire-team plunged by, he
would ostentatiously throw out a stiff leg behind him like the tail of a