“No,” said Paul; “I’ve never written any plays yet, but I’m going to.  That’s why I want to sort of begin here and get the hang of this writing game.”

A boy entered with some proofs at that moment and tossed them upon the table, distracting the attention of the newspaper man.  The latter wheeled back to his work and spoke curtly over his shoulder.

“I’m not running a school of journalism.  Good-by.”

“Maybe you’d like me to do a little space work—?”

“I’d never like you.  Get out.  I’m busy.”

Anderson retired gracefully, jingling his scanty handful of nickels and dimes, and a half-hour later thrust himself boldly in upon another editor, but with no better result.  He made the rounds of all the offices; although invariably rebuffed he became more firmly convinced than ever that journalism was his designated sphere.

That night after dinner he retired to his room with the evening papers, wedged a chair against his bed, and, hoisting his feet upon the wash-stand, absorbed the news of the day.  It was ineffably sweet and satisfying to be thus identified with the profession of letters, and it was immeasurably more dignified than “tugging” on the Saginaw River.  Once he had schooled himself in the tricks of writing, he decided he would step to higher things than newspaper work, but for the present it was well to ground himself firmly in the rudiments of the craft.

In going through the papers he noted one topic which interested him, a “similar mystery” story on the second page.  From what he could gather, he judged that much space had already been given to it; for now, inasmuch as no solution offered, the item was dying slowly, the major portion of each article being devoted to a rehash of similar unsolved mysteries.

Anderson read that the body of the golden-haired girl still lay at the Morgue, unidentified.  Bit by bit he pieced together the lean story that she was a suicide and that both the police and the press had failed in their efforts to unearth the least particle of information regarding her.  In spite of her remarkable beauty and certain unusual circumstances connected with her death investigation had led nowhere.

On the following day Anderson again walked into the editorial-rooms of The Intelligencer and greeted the smooth, fat-faced occupant thereof.

“Anything doing yet?” he inquired.

“Not yet,” said the newspaper man, with a trace of annoyance in his voice.  As the applicant moved out he halted him at the door with the words:  “Oh!  Wait!”

Anderson’s heart leaped.  After all, he thought, perseverance would—­

“Not yet, nor soon.”  The editor smiled broadly, and Paul realized that the humor in those pin-point eyes was rather cruel.

Five other calls he made that day, to be greeted gruffly in every instance except one.  One man encouraged him slightly by saying: 

“Come back next week; I may have an opening then.”