The morning Post was an old paper, which had been in the hands of a single family from A.D. 1846 till only the other day.  It had been a power during the war, a favorite mouthpiece of President Davis.  It had stood like a wall during the cruelties of Reconstruction; had fought the good fight for white man’s rule; had crucified carpet-baggism and scalawaggery upon a cross of burning adjective.  Later it had labored gallantly for Tilden; denounced Hayes as a robber; idolized Cleveland; preached free trade with pure passion; swallowed free silver; stood “regular,” though not without grimaces, through Bryanism.  The Post was, in short, a paper with an honorable history, and everybody felt a kind of affection for it.  The plain fact remained, however, that within recent years a great many worthy persons had acquired the habit of reading the more hustling State.

The Post, not to put too fine a point upon it, had for a time run fast to seed.  The third generation of its owners had lost their money, mostly in land speculations in the suburbs of New York City, and in the State of Oregon.  You could have thrown a brick from their office windows and hit far better land speculations, but they had the common fault of believing that things far away from home are necessarily and always the best.  The demand rose for bigger, fatter newspapers, with comic sections and plenty of purple ink, and the Post’s owners found themselves unable to supply it.  In fact they had to retort by mortgaging their property to the hilt and cutting expenses to rock-bottom.  These were dark days for the Post.  That it managed to survive them at all was due chiefly to the personality of Colonel Cowles, who, though doubtless laughable as a political economist, was yet considered to have his good points.  But the Hercules-labor grew too heavy even for him, and the paper was headed straight for the auctioneer’s block when new interests suddenly stepped in and bought it.  These interests, consisting largely of progressive men of the younger generation, thoroughly overhauled and reorganized the property, laid in the needed purple ink, and were now gradually driving the old paper back to the dividend-paying point again.

Colonel Cowles, whose services had, of course, been retained, was of the old school of journalism, editor and manager, too.  Very little went into the Post that he had not personally vised in the proof:  forty galleys a night were child’s play to him.  Managing editor there was none but himself; the city editor was his mere office-boy and mouthpiece; even the august business manager, who mingled with great advertisers on equal terms, was known to take orders from him.  In addition the Colonel wrote three columns of editorials every day.  Of these editorials it is enough to say at this point that there were people who liked them.

Toward this dominant personality, the reluctant applicant for work now made his way.  He cut an absent-minded figure upon the street, did Mr. Queed, but this time he made his crossings without mishap.  Undisturbed by dogs, he landed at the Post building, and in time blundered into a room described as “Editorial” on the glass-door.  A friendly young girl sitting there, pounding away on a typewriter, referred him to the next office, and the young man, opening the connecting door without knocking, passed inside.