“The Post, Mr. Queed,” went on West agreeably, “is always looking for men who can do exceptional work.  Therefore, I have come to consider with you whether we might not make an arrangement to our mutual advantage.”

At that the whole thing came back to the young man.  He had agreed to take light remunerative work to pay his board, and now the day of reckoning was at hand.  His heart grew heavy within him.

“Well,” said he, exactly as he had said to the agent, “what have you to propose?”

“I thought of proposing, first, that you give me some idea of what you have done and can do on lines useful for a daily newspaper.  How does that method of procedure strike you?”

Queed produced his celebrated envelope of clippings.  Also he hunted up one or two stray cuttings which proved to be editorials he had written on assignment, for a New York newspaper.  West ran through them with intelligent quickness.

“I say!  These are rather fine, you know.  This article on the income tax now—­just right!—­just the sort of thing!”

Queed sat with his hand clamped on his head, which was aching rather badly, as indeed it did about three fourths of the time.

“Oh, yes,” he said wearily.

“I take off my hat to you!” added West presently.  “You’re rather out of my depth here, but at least I know enough political economy to know what is good.”

He looked at Queed, smiling, very good-humored and gay, and Queed looked back at him, not very good-humored and anything but gay.  Doubtless it would have surprised the young Doctor very much to know that West was feeling sorry for him just then, for at that moment he was feeling sorry for West.

“Now look here,” said West.

He explained how the Post desired a man to write sleep-inducing fillers—­“occasional articles of weight and authority” was the way he put it—­and wanted to know if such an opening would interest Mr. Queed.  Queed said he supposed so, provided the Post took little of his time and paid his board in return for it.  West had no doubt that everything could be satisfactorily arranged.

“Colonel Cowles is the man who hires and fires,” he explained.  “Go to see him in a day or two, will you?  Meantime, I’ll tell him all about you.”

Presently West smiled himself out, leaving Queed decidedly relieved at the brief reprieve.  He had been harried by the fear that his visitor would insist on his stopping to produce an article or so while he waited.  However, the time had come when the inevitable had to be faced.  His golden privacy must be ravished for the grim god of bread and meat.  The next afternoon he put on his hat with a bad grace, and went forth to seek Colonel Cowles, editor-in-chief of the leading paper in the State.