With the corrected article in his
hand he knocked at the door of the editor's room.
It was a small, plainly furnished office--no carpet, three severe chairs, a
revolving book case with a battered and dusty bust of Lincoln on it, a
table strewn with newspaper cuttings. Newspapers from all parts of the
world were scattered about the floor. At the table sat the editor, Mr.
Malcolm, whom Howard had never before seen.
He was short and slender, with thin white hair and a smooth, satirical
face, deeply wrinkled and unhealthily pale. He was dressed in black but
wore a string tie of a peculiarly lively shade of red. His most conspicuous
feature was his nose--long, narrow, pointed, sarcastic.
"My name is Howard," began the candidate, all but stammering before Mr.
Malcolm's politely uninterested glance, "and I come from downstairs."
"Oh--so you are Mr. Howard. I've heard of you often. Will you be seated?"
"Thank you--no. I've only brought in a little article I thought I'd submit
for your page. I'd like to write for it and, if you don't mind, I'll bring
in an article occasionally."
"Glad to have it. We like new ideas; and a new pen, a new mind, ought to
produce them. If you don't see your articles in the paper, you'll know what
has happened to them.
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