“The next particular Basswood Junction happened to be a Democratic minin’ town, instead of a Republican agricultural community.  It didn’t have any overall factories at all.  They didn’t relish bein’ told that they had voted the straight Republican ticket ever since Alexander Hamilton, and that they had given to the public that distinguished citizen, James K. Blinkensop, when the man they had really given to the public was Dan G. Healy.  Oh, the whole thing got all mixed up!  Now, that was News!  And they fired me by wire that night!  The People’s Choice was awful hostile.  And me raised tender, too!”

“Well, then, what did you do?” asked I, getting interested in spite of myself.

“I was far, far from home.  But not thus easily could I be shaken out of my chosen profession.  In thirty-eight minutes I was at work as managin’ editor of a mornin’ paper.  That particular Basswood Junction was just startin’ a daily, the kind the real-estate men and the local congressman have to support or go out of the business.  Their editor had been raised on a weekly, and had been used to goin’ to sleep at eight o’clock in the evening.  The rumor spread that a metropolitan journalist had fallen out of a balloon into their midst.  That morning’s paper was two days late.  So I just went in and went to work.  I sent every one else home to bed, and sat down to write the paper.

“Of course, I began with dogs, for on account of my early trainin’ I knew more about that.  Two columns of dogs as a Local Industry.  Then I took up Mineral Resources, about half a column.  Might have played that up a little stronger, but I was shy on facts.  Then I did the Literary and Dramatic.  I shuddered when I struck that, because when a man on a paper gets put on Literary and Dramatic, it usually isn’t far to his finish.  He don’t have to send out after trouble—­it comes to him spontaneous.  Next, I had to do Society.  Didn’t know anybody there, so that was a little hard.  Had to content myself with the Beautiful-and-Accomplished-Who-Shall-be-Nameless,—­that sort of thing.  Why,” said Dan Anderson, plaintively, “it’s awful hard to write society and local news in a town when you’ve only been there fifteen minutes.  But a real metropolitan journalist ought to be able to, and I did.

“By this time the office force was standin’ around some awed.  I sent the foreman of the pressroom out for a bottle of fizz.  Sarsaparilla was the nearest he could come to it, but it went.  Then I turned my hot young blood loose on the editorial page.  ‘This,’ said I, ’is my opportunity to save the country, and I’m goin’ to save it, right here.’  It was then eleven hours, forty-five minutes, and eight seconds by the grandpa clock which adorned the newly furnished sanctum.”  Dan Anderson again sat silent a few moments, the stub of his cigarrillo between his fingers.