When Hal returned to college, the Wanderlust was still too strong in Carl; so he stopped off in Spokane, Washington, penniless, to try pot-luck.  There were more tales to delight a gathering.  In Spokane he took a hand at reporting, claiming to be a person of large experience, since only those of large experience were desired by the editor of the “Spokesman Review.”  He was given sport, society, and the tenderloin to cover, at nine dollars a week.  As he never could go anywhere without making folks love him, it was not long before he had his cronies among the “sports,” kind souls “in society” who took him in, and at least one strong, loyal friend,—­who called him “Bub,” and gave him much excellent advice that he often used to refer to,—­who was the owner of the biggest gambling-joint in town. (Spokane was wide open in those days, and “some town.”)

It was the society friends who seem to have saved his life, for nine dollars did not go far, even then.  I have heard his hostesses tell of the meal he could consume.  “But I’d been saving for it all day, with just ten cents in my pocket.”  I met a pal of those days who used to save Carl considerable of his nine dollars by “smooching” his wash into his own home laundry.

About then Carl’s older brother, Boyd, who was somewhat fastidious, ran into him in Spokane.  He tells how Carl insisted he should spend the night at his room instead of going to a hotel.

“Is it far from here?”

“Oh, no!”

So they started out with Boyd’s suitcase, and walked and walked through the “darndest part of town you ever saw.”  Finally, after crossing untold railroad tracks and ducking around sheds and through alleys, they came to a rooming-house that was “a holy fright.”  “It’s all right inside,” Carl explained.

When they reached his room, there was one not over-broad bed in the corner, and a red head showing, snoring contentedly.

“Who’s that?” the brother asked.

“Oh, a fellow I picked up somewhere.”

“Where am I to sleep?”

“Right in here—­the bed’s plenty big enough for three!”

And Boyd says, though it was 2 A.M. and miles from anywhere, he lit out of there as fast as he could move; and he adds, “I don’t believe he even knew that red-headed boy’s name!”

The reporting went rather lamely it seemed, however.  The editor said that it read amateurish, and he felt he would have to make a change.  Carl made for some files where all the daily papers were kept, and read and re-read the yellowest of the yellow.  As luck would have it, that very night a big fire broke out in a crowded apartment house.  It was not in Carl’s “beat,” but he decided to cover it anyhow.  Along with the firemen, he managed to get upon the roof; he jumped here, he flew there, demolishing the only suit of clothes he owned.  But what an account he handed in!  The editor discarded entirely the story of the reporter sent to cover the fire, ran in Carl’s, word for word, and raised him to twelve dollars a week.