"Piffle it may be, but I'm going to have a whack at it. If I ever do another article it will be as a millionaire's private secretary. I should like to study his methods for saving his money. What is it this time?" "A dash to the North Pole." "Never again north of Berlin or south of Assuan for mine. No." "Come, Fitz; a great chance." "When you sent me to Manila I explored hell for you, but I've cooled off considerably since then. No ice for mine, except in silver buckets." "You've made a pretty good thing out of us; something like five thousand a year and your expenses; and with the credentials we've always given you, you have been able to see the world as few men see it." "That's just the trouble. You've spoiled me." "Well, you may take my word for it, you won't have the patience to sit down at home here and write a hundred thousand words that mean anything. There's no reason why you can't do my work and write novels on the side. We both know a dozen fellows who are doing it. We've got to have this article, and you're the only man we dare trust alone on it, if it will flatter you any to know it." "Come, pussy, come!" "If it's a question of more money--" "Perish the thought!" cried Fitzgerald, clasping his knees and rocking gently. "You know as well as I do, Hewitt, that it's the game and not the cash. I've found a new love, my boy." "Double harness?" with real anxiety. Hewitt bit his scrubby mustache. When a special correspondent married that was the end of him. "There you go again!" warned the recalcitrant. "If you don't stop eating that mustache you'll have stomach trouble that no Scotch whisky will ever cure. The whole thing is in a nutshell," a sly humor creeping into his eyes. "I am tired of writing ephemeral things. I want to write something that will last." "Write your epitaph, Jack," drawled a deep voice from the reading table. "That's the only sure way, and even that is no good if your marble is spongy." "Oh, Cathewe, this is not your funeral," retorted the editor. "Perhaps not. All the same, I'll be chief mourner if Jack takes up novel writing. Critics don't like novels, because any one can write an average story; but it takes a genius to turn out first-class magazine copy. Anyhow, art becomes less and less particular every day. The only thing that never gains or loses is this _London Times_. Someday I'm going to match the _Congressional Record_ and the _Times_ for the heavyweight championship of the world, with seven to one on the _Record_, to weigh in at the ringside." "You've been up north, Arthur," said Fitzgerald. "What's your advice?" "Don't do it. You've often wondered how and where I lost these two digits. Up there." The _Times_ rattled, and Cathewe became absorbed in the budget.