He seized what courage he had left in both hands, and found himself, after the usual reluctance of the people in the business office, face to face with Mr. Witherby in his private room. Mr. Witherby had lately dismissed his managing editor for his neglect of the true interests of the paper as represented by the counting-room; and was managing the Events himself. He sat before a table strewn with newspapers and manuscripts; and as he looked up, Bartley saw that he did not recognize him. “How do you do, Mr. Witherby? I had the pleasure of meeting you the other day in Maine--at Mr. Willett's logging-camp. Hubbard is my name; remember me as editor of the Equity Free Press.” “Oh, yes,” said Mr. Witherby, rising and standing at his desk, as a sort of compromise between asking his visitor to sit down and telling him to go away. He shook hands in a loose way, and added: “I presume you would like to exchange. But the fact is, our list is so large already, that we can't extend it, just now; we can't--” Bartley smiled. “I don't want any exchange, Mr. Witherby. I'm out of the Free Press.” “Ah!” said the city journalist, with relief. He added, in a leading tone: “Then--” “I've come to offer you an article,--an account of lumbering in our State. It's a little sketch that I've prepared from what I saw in Mr. Willett's camp, and some facts and statistics I've picked up. I thought it might make an attractive feature of your Sunday edition.” “The Events,” said Mr. Witherby, solemnly, “does not publish a Sunday edition!” “Of course not,” answered Bartley, inwardly cursing his blunder,--“I mean your Saturday evening supplement.” He handed him his manuscript.