Anderson went back to his desk in silent rage.  Real estate!  Burns evidently intended to hold him down.  His gloomy meditations were somewhat lightened by the congratulations of his fellow-reporters, who rather timidly ventured to introduce themselves.  They understood the facts and they voiced a similar indignation to his.  Burns had played him a rotten trick, they agreed.  Not content with robbing his new reporter of the recognition which was justly his, the fellow was evidently determined to vent his spite in other ways.  Well, that was like Burns.  They voiced the opinion that Anderson would have a tough job getting through interference of the kind that their editor would throw in his way.

Hour after hour Paul sat around the office nursing his disappointment, waiting for Burns to send him out.  About two o’clock Wells hurried into the office, bringing with him the afternoon papers still wet from the press.  In his eyes was an unwonted sparkle.  He crossed directly to Anderson and thrust out his palm.

“Old man, I want to shake with you,” said he.  “And I want to apologize for being a rotter.”

Paul met him half-way, and the fellow went on: 

“Burns gave us the wrong tip on you—­said you were a joke—­that’s why we joshed you.  But you showed us up, and I’m glad you did.”

“Why—­thank you!” stammered the new reporter, upon whom this manly apology had a strong effect.  “It—­it was more luck than anything.”

“Luck nothing!  You’re a genius, and it’s a dirty shame the way the boss tried to steal your credit.  However, it seems he overreached himself.”  Wells began to laugh.

“Tried to steal it!  Good Lord! he did steal it!  How do you mean he overreached himself?”

“Haven’t you seen the afternoon papers?”

“No.”

“Well!  Read ’em!” Mr. Wells spread his papers out before Paul, whose astonished eyes took in for a second time the story of the Wilkes suicide.  But what a story!

He read his own name in big, black type; he read head-lines that told of a starving boy sent out on a hopeless assignment as a cruel joke; he read the story as it had really occurred, only told in the third person by an author who was neither ashamed nor afraid to give credit where it was due.  The egotistical pretense of The Buffalo Intelligencer was torn to shreds, and ridicule was heaped upon its editor.  Paul read nervously, breathlessly, until Wells interrupted him.

“I’m to blame for this,” said he.  “I couldn’t stand for such a crooked deal.  When I got in this morning and saw what that fat imbecile had done to you I tipped the true facts off to the others—­all of the facts I knew.  They got the rest from Corrigan, down at the Grand Trunk depot.  Of course this means my job, if the old man finds it out; but I don’t give a damn.”

As yet Anderson was too dazed to grasp what had happened to him, but the other continued: