“Sit down,” Brissenden said.

Martin made room for the young man on the bed and waited for him to broach his business.

“I heard you speak last night, Mr. Eden, and I’ve come to interview you,” he began.

Brissenden burst out in a hearty laugh.

“A brother socialist?” the reporter asked, with a quick glance at Brissenden that appraised the color-value of that cadaverous and dying man.

“And he wrote that report,” Martin said softly.  “Why, he is only a boy!”

“Why don’t you poke him?” Brissenden asked.  “I’d give a thousand dollars to have my lungs back for five minutes.”

The cub reporter was a trifle perplexed by this talking over him and around him and at him.  But he had been commended for his brilliant description of the socialist meeting and had further been detailed to get a personal interview with Martin Eden, the leader of the organized menace to society.

“You do not object to having your picture taken, Mr. Eden?” he said.  “I’ve a staff photographer outside, you see, and he says it will be better to take you right away before the sun gets lower.  Then we can have the interview afterward.”

“A photographer,” Brissenden said meditatively.  “Poke him, Martin!  Poke him!”

“I guess I’m getting old,” was the answer.  “I know I ought, but I really haven’t the heart.  It doesn’t seem to matter.”

“For his mother’s sake,” Brissenden urged.

“It’s worth considering,” Martin replied; “but it doesn’t seem worth while enough to rouse sufficient energy in me.  You see, it does take energy to give a fellow a poking.  Besides, what does it matter?”

“That’s right—­that’s the way to take it,” the cub announced airily, though he had already begun to glance anxiously at the door.

“But it wasn’t true, not a word of what he wrote,” Martin went on, confining his attention to Brissenden.

“It was just in a general way a description, you understand,” the cub ventured, “and besides, it’s good advertising.  That’s what counts.  It was a favor to you.”

“It’s good advertising, Martin, old boy,” Brissenden repeated solemnly.

“And it was a favor to me—­think of that!” was Martin’s contribution.

“Let me see—­where were you born, Mr. Eden?” the cub asked, assuming an air of expectant attention.

“He doesn’t take notes,” said Brissenden.  “He remembers it all.”

“That is sufficient for me.”  The cub was trying not to look worried.  “No decent reporter needs to bother with notes.”

“That was sufficient—­for last night.”  But Brissenden was not a disciple of quietism, and he changed his attitude abruptly.  “Martin, if you don’t poke him, I’ll do it myself, if I fall dead on the floor the next moment.”

“How will a spanking do?” Martin asked.

Brissenden considered judicially, and nodded his head.