“Say,” he yelled up, “you can use the same old cartoon; ’Keep Off the Grass,’ you know.”

“Eh?—­right,” crossly from the front room.

“And say?”

The news-man came out and leaned over the upper railing.

“Don’t forget to take that tonic for your nerves.”

The news-man told Bat to go any where he pleased; but it was all in the day’s work with Mr. Bat Brydges.  He didn’t go.  The handy man went straight across to the paper in opposition.  The news-man went back to the front room and stood thinking.  He didn’t curse Bat nor emit fumes of the sulphurous place to which he had invited Brydges.  He was contemplating what he called his “kids”; and he was figuring the next payment due on the Smelter City lots in which he had been speculating.  Evidently, these were the news-man’s tonic; for he at once did what he described as “bucking it” and called down the speaking tube for the press man to put on the old cartoon.

The opposition paper required more finesse on the part of the handy man.  Bat strolled as if it were a matter of habit into the telegraph editor’s room, where he lolled back in one of the two empty chairs.  It was still early and the wires were silent.  Bat laid one cigar at the editor’s place and took a fresh one for himself.

“Hullo, Bat,” bubbled the telegraph man, dashing from the composing room in his shirt sleeves, “We’ve just been having a yell of an argument about the elements of success.”  He seated himself and whipped out a match to light the cigar.  Bat was clicking his cigar case open and shut.  This editor was all nerves too.  Nerves seemed to go with the job; but these nerves were not jangled.  He leaned back in his swing chair with one boot against the desk.  “What makes a man successful, anyway?  It isn’t ability.  Your news-man across the way could buy our office out with brains; but gee whitaker, he’s worse than a dose of bitters!  Now take your Senator, he hasn’t either the education or the brains of lots of our cub reporters, here!” He paused nibbling his cigar end.  “Yet, he’s successful.  We aren’t, except in a sort of doggon-hack-horse way.  You’re next to the old man, Bat, what do you say makes him successful?”

Bat clicked the cigar case shut and put it in his pocket.

“Two things:  he’s a specialist; he delivers the goods no other man can deliver; and he doesn’t fool any time away by bucking into a buzz saw, fighting windmills and that sort of thing, way you fellows ’agin the Government’ do.”

The telegraph man removed his cigar.

“What do you mean by ‘delivers the goods no other man can deliver’?  Do you mean the pork barrel?”

“No,” said Bat, “I don’t, though the pork barrel is a d—­ee—­d essential part of the game.  Here’s what I mean; when you came to this Valley, there was nothing doing.  We had mines; but we hadn’t a smelter!  Well, Senator got the coking coal for a smelting site and the big developers came in.  Other men couldn’t, wouldn’t or didn’t dare to do it!  He did it.  He delivered the goods and got the big fellows interested.”