The paper with which I was eventually connected was the Cleveland _Leader_, which represented all that was conservative in the local life. Wandering into its office on the second or third day of my stay, I was met at the desk of the city editor by a small, boyish-looking person of a ferret-like countenance, who wanted to know what I was after. I told him, and he said there was nothing, but on hearing of the papers with which I had been connected and the nature of the work I had done he suggested that possibly I might be able to do something for the Sunday edition. The Sunday editor proved to be a tall, melancholy man with sad eyes, a sallow face, sunken cheeks, narrow shoulders and a general air of weariness and depression. “What is it, now, you want?” he asked slowly, looking up from his musty roll-top desk. “Your city editor suggested that possibly you might have some Sunday work for me to do. I’ve had experience in this line in Chicago and St. Louis.” “Yes,” he said not asking me to sit down. “Well, now, what do you think you could write about?” This was a poser. Being new to the city I had not thought of any particular thing, and could not at this moment. I told him this. “There’s one thing you might write about if you could. Did you ever hear of a new-style grain-boat they are putting on the Lakes called——” “Turtle-back?” I interrupted. “Turtle-back?” went on the editor indifferently. “Well, there’s one here now in the harbor. It’s the first one to come here. Do you think you could get up something on that?” “I’m sure I could. I’d like to try. Do you use pictures?” “You might get a photo or two; we could have drawings made from them.” I started for the door, eager to be about this, when he said: “We don’t pay very much: three dollars a column.” That was discouraging, but I was filled with the joy of doing something. On my way out I stopped at the business office and bought a copy of the last Sunday issue, which proved to be a poor makeshift composed of a half dozen articles on local enterprises and illustrated with a few crude drawings. I read one or two of them, and then looked up my waterfront boat. I found it tied up at a dock adjoining an immense railroad yard and near an imposing grain elevator. Finding nobody about, I nosed out the bookkeeper of the grain elevator, who told me that the captain of the boat had gone to the company’s local office in a nearby street. I hastened to the place, and there found a bluff old lake captain in blue, short, stout, ruddy, coarse, who volunteered, almost with a “Heigh!” and a “Ho!” to tell me something about it. “I think I ought to know a little something about ’em—I sailed the first one that was ever sailed out of the port of Chicago.”