“And so would any other practical man!” said Witherby. “And that's just where Mr. Clayton and I differed. Well, I needn't allude to him any more,” he added leniently. “What I wish to say is this, Mr. Hubbard. I am overworked, and I feel the need of some sort of relief. I know that I have started the Events in the right line at last,--the only line in which it can be made a great, useful, and respectable journal, efficient in every good cause,--and what I want now is some sort of assistant in the management who shall be in full sympathy with my own ideas. I don't want a mere slave,--a tool; but I do want an independent, right-minded man, who shall be with me for the success of the paper the whole time and every time, and shall not be continually setting up his will against mine on all sorts of _doctrinaire_ points. That was the trouble with Mr. Clayton. I have nothing against Mr. Clayton personally; he is an excellent young man in very many respects; but he was all wrong about journalism, all wrong, Mr. Hubbard. I talked with him a great deal, and tried to make him see where his interest lay. He had been on the paper as a reporter from the start, and I wished very much to promote him to this position; which he could have made the best position in the country. The Events is an evening paper; there is no night-work; and the whole thing is already thoroughly systematized. Mr. Clayton had plenty of talent, and all he had to do was to step in under my direction and put his hand on the helm. But, no! I should have been glad to keep him in a subordinate capacity; but I had to let him go. He said that he would not report the conflagration of a peanut-stand for a paper conducted on the principles I had developed to him. Now, that is no way to talk. It's absurd.” “Perfectly.” Bartley laughed his rich, caressing laugh, in which there was the insinuation of all worldly-wise contempt for Clayton and all worldly-wise sympathy with Witherby. It made Witherby feel good,--better perhaps than he had felt at any time since his talk with Clayton. “Well, now, what do you say, Mr. Hubbard? Can't we make some arrangement with you?” he asked, with a burst of frankness. “I guess you can,” said Bartley. The fact that Witherby needed him was so plain that he did not care to practise any finesse about the matter. “What are your present engagements?” “I haven't any.” “Then you can take hold at once?” “Yes.”