“Ah,” Witherspoon replied, “but Brooks is used to such work.  He writes our advertisements.”

“But this isn’t an advertisement, and I prefer to write it.”

“Of course, if you can do it satisfactorily, but I should think that it would be better if done by a practiced hand.”

“I think so too,” Henry rejoined, “and for that reason I recommend my own hand.  I have worked on newspapers.”

“That so?  It may be fortunate so far as this one instance is concerned, but as a general thing I shouldn’t recommend it.  Newspaper men have such loose methods, as a rule, that they never accomplish much when they turn their attention to business.”

Henry laughed, but the merchant had spoken with such seriousness that he was not disposed to turn it off with a show of mirth.  His face remained thoughtful, and he said:  “We had several newspaper men about here, and not one of them amounted to anything.  Brooks, your services will not be needed.  In fact, two of them were dishonest,” he added, when Brooks had quitted the room.  “They were said to be good newspaper men, too.  One of them came with ‘Journalist’ printed on his card; had solicited advertisements for nearly every paper in town.  They were all understood to be good solicitors.”

“What,” said Henry, “were they simply advertising solicitors?”

“Why, yes; and they were said to be good ones.”

“But you must know, sir, that an advertising solicitor is not a newspaper man.  It makes me sick—­I beg your pardon.  But it does rile me to hear that one of these fellows has called himself a newspaper man.  Of course there are honest and able men in that employment, but they are not to be classed with men whose learning, judgment and strong mental forces make a great newspaper.”

So new a life sprang into his voice, and so strong a conviction emphasized his manner, that Witherspoon, for the first time, looked on him with a sort of admiration.

“Well, you seem to be loaded on this subject.”

“Yes, but not offensively so, I hope.  Now, give me the points you want covered.”

“All right; sit here.”

Henry took Witherspoon’s chair; the merchant walked up and down the room.  The points were agreed upon, and the writer was getting well along with his work when Witherspoon suddenly paused in his walk and said to some one outside:  “Show him in here.”

A pale and restless-looking young man with green neckwear entered the room.  “Now, sir,” the merchant demanded somewhat sharply, “what do you want with me?  You have been here three or four times, I understand.  What do you want?”

“We are not alone,” the young man answered, glancing at Henry.

“State your business or get out.”

“Well, it’s rather a delicate matter, sir, and I didn’t want anything to do with it, but we don’t always have our own way, you know.  Er—­the editor of the paper”—­