"What is it now?" asked Rives, impatiently. "Have you forgotten
something?"
Stuart looked back at the front door in momentary indecision.
"Ye-es," he answered. "I did forget something. But it doesn't matter,"
he added, cheerfully, taking Sloane's arm.
"Come on," he said, "and so Seldon made a hit, did he? I am glad--and
tell me, old man, how long will we have to wait at Gib for the P. & O.?"
Stuart's servant had heard the men trooping down the stairs, laughing
and calling to one another as they went, and judging from this that
they had departed for the night, he put out all the lights in the
library and closed the piano, and lifted the windows to clear the room
of the tobacco-smoke. He did not notice the beautiful photograph
sitting upright in the armchair before the fireplace, and so left it
alone in the deserted library.
The cold night-air swept in through the open window and chilled the
silent room, and the dead coals in the grate dropped one by one into
the fender with a dismal echoing clatter; but the Picture still sat in
the armchair with the same graceful pose and the same lovely
expression, and smiled sweetly at the encircling darkness.
THE REPORTER WHO MADE HIMSELF KING
The Old Time Journalist will tell you that the best reporter is the
one who works his way up. He holds that the only way to start is as a
printer's devil or as an office boy, to learn in time to set type, to
graduate from a compositor into a stenographer, and as a stenographer
take down speeches at public meetings, and so finally grow into a real
reporter, with a fire badge on your left suspender, and a speaking
acquaintance with all the greatest men in the city, not even excepting
Police Captains.
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