“Yes,” I said absently; “yes.”

AMATEUR NIGHT

The elevator boy smiled knowingly to himself.  When he took her up, he had noted the sparkle in her eyes, the color in her cheeks.  His little cage had quite warmed with the glow of her repressed eagerness.  And now, on the down trip, it was glacier-like.  The sparkle and the color were gone.  She was frowning, and what little he could see of her eyes was cold and steel-gray.  Oh, he knew the symptoms, he did.  He was an observer, and he knew it, too, and some day, when he was big enough, he was going to be a reporter, sure.  And in the meantime he studied the procession of life as it streamed up and down eighteen sky-scraper floors in his elevator car.  He slid the door open for her sympathetically and watched her trip determinedly out into the street.

There was a robustness in her carriage which came of the soil rather than of the city pavement.  But it was a robustness in a finer than the wonted sense, a vigorous daintiness, it might be called, which gave an impression of virility with none of the womanly left out.  It told of a heredity of seekers and fighters, of people that worked stoutly with head and hand, of ghosts that reached down out of the misty past and moulded and made her to be a doer of things.

But she was a little angry, and a great deal hurt.  “I can guess what you would tell me,” the editor had kindly but firmly interrupted her lengthy preamble in the long-looked-forward-to interview just ended.  “And you have told me enough,” he had gone on (heartlessly, she was sure, as she went over the conversation in its freshness).  “You have done no newspaper work.  You are undrilled, undisciplined, unhammered into shape.  You have received a high-school education, and possibly topped it off with normal school or college.  You have stood well in English.  Your friends have all told you how cleverly you write, and how beautifully, and so forth and so forth.  You think you can do newspaper work, and you want me to put you on.  Well, I am sorry, but there are no openings.  If you knew how crowded—­”

“But if there are no openings,” she had interrupted, in turn, “how did those who are in, get in?  How am I to show that I am eligible to get in?”

“They made themselves indispensable,” was the terse response.  “Make yourself indispensable.”

“But how can I, if I do not get the chance?”

“Make your chance.”

“But how?” she had insisted, at the same time privately deeming him a most unreasonable man.

“How?  That is your business, not mine,” he said conclusively, rising in token that the interview was at an end.  “I must inform you, my dear young lady, that there have been at least eighteen other aspiring young ladies here this week, and that I have not the time to tell each and every one of them how.  The function I perform on this paper is hardly that of instructor in a school of journalism.”