A fire sprang and spread in Mr. Higman’s face. “And the rest in postal-cards,” he directed with dignity. “You’re our best little customer,” continued the flippant clerk. (The little customer murderously contemplated arranging with The Guardian, later, to write an editorial about him and get him fired!) “Write to her every day, don’t che?” “Shuttup, y’ ole fool!” retorted the infuriate youth, stepping aside to reckon up his purchase, lest it might be short. “Yessir,” continued the blatant gossip, to the next comer. “He sure is the ready letter-writer, only _an’_ original. Don’t see how he has time to help you edit your paper, Mr. Robson.” Mr. Robson! The shock diverted Buddy at the twenty-eighth count. He looked up into the friendly face of the Boss. He hastened to defend himself. “I yain’t, either, Mr. Robson. ’Tain’t letters at all. They’re fer noospapers.” “Are they?” said his chief, walking out into the wintry air with him. “I did n’t know we had so much foreign circulation, Buddy.” “No, sir; we ain’t. Say, Boss,” he added after a pause, “we gained five new ads on The Record this week, an’ they only got one that we did n’t.” “Good business, Buddy.” “An’ I had two sticks in the paper yesterday. Dje see it? Story of the kid that fell through the ice.” “You’ll be a reporter one of these days, son.” “Oh, gee!” said Buddy ecstatically. Then, with resentment, “What’s the good of school, anyway?” “If you’re going to be a real newspaper man you’ll need all the education you can get.” “Yes, sir.” The aspiring neophyte sighed. “That’s what She says.” There was but one “She” in the vocabulary of the exclusive and worshiping Buddy. Her name was never pronounced in the conversations on the subject between himself and his Boss. There was no need of being more specific, for either of them. “It’s good advice.” Buddy marched along beside his employer, obviously wriggling upon the hook of some pointed thought. Presently further reticence became impossible. “Mr. Robson!” “Well?” “Them stamps--” “What would the blue pencil do to a sentence beginning that way, Buddy?” “_Those_ stamps--it’s like I told the fresh guy at the window.” “They’re for the circulation department?” “No, sir. But they’re for circulation all right. I been sendin’ the paper every day to Hamburg.” Jeremy’s pulses quickened. “Your own idea, Buddy?” “Nope. I’m sendin’ it to Her. It ’s Her idear. She reads it reg’lar. She’s deeply int’rusted in my cay-reer.” “Where did you get that? It doesn’t sound like Her.” “It ain’t. Got it out of a book,” confessed the boy. “I write to Her, too,” he added happily. “She ast me to.” “What does she think of your work?” inquired the Boss gravely. “I ain’t heard from Her since I began gettin’ my stuff in the paper. But I guess She likes the paper all right. She tells me in most every letter what a big thing it is to help make a noospaper.” “Does She? What else does She say?”