“Yes,” he said. “Lumbering, hey? Well, there's some interest in that, just now, on account of this talk about the decay of our shipbuilding interests. Anything on that point?” “That's the very point I touch on first,” said Bartley. The editor stopped turning over his manuscript. “Let's see,” he said, holding out his hand for Bartley's article. He looked at the first head-line, “What I Know about Logging,” and smiled. “Old, but good.” Then he glanced at the other headings, and ran his eye down the long strips on which Bartley had written; nibbled at the text here and there a little; returned to the first paragraph, and read that through; looked back at something else, and then read the close. “I guess you can leave it,” he said, laying the manuscript on the table. “No, I guess not,” said Bartley, with equal coolness, gathering it up. The editor looked fairly at him for the first time, and smiled. Evidently he liked this. “What's the reason? Any particular hurry?” “I happen to know that the Events is going to send a man down East to write up this very subject. And I don't propose to leave this article here till they steal my thunder, and then have it thrown back on my hands not worth the paper it's written on.” The editor tilted himself back in his chair and braced his knees against his table. “Well, I guess you're right,” he said. “What do you want for it?” This was a terrible question. Bartley knew nothing about the prices that city papers paid; he feared to ask too much, but he also feared to cheapen his wares by asking too little. “Twenty-five dollars,” he said, huskily. “Let's look at it,” said the editor, reaching out his hand for the manuscript again. “Sit down.” He pushed a chair toward Bartley with his foot, having first swept a pile of newspapers from it to the floor. He now read the article more fully, and then looked up at Bartley, who sat still, trying to hide his anxiety. “You're not quite a new hand at the bellows, are you?” “I've edited a country paper.” “Yes? Where?” “Down in Maine.” The editor bent forward and took out a long, narrow blank-book. “I guess we shall want your article. What name?” “Bartley J. Hubbard.” It sounded in his ears like some other name. “Going to be in Boston some time?” “All the time,” said Bartley, struggling to appear nonchalant. The revulsion from the despair into which he had fallen after his interview with Witherby was still very great. The order on the counting-room which the editor had given him shook in his hand. He saw his way before him clearly now; he wished to propose some other things that he would like to write; but he was saved from this folly for the time by the editor's saying, in a tone of dismissal: “Better come in to-morrow and see a proof. We shall put you into the Wednesday supplement.” “Thanks,” said Bartley. “Good day.”