“Oh, it’s a rotten game, and Lord! how I hate to be quitting it!” pursued the philosopher. “How I’d love to be you, just getting really into it! Perhaps I’d do different. Make a better job of it. Keep to my ideals. Perhaps not. Too heavy odds.” His eyes lifted again with a bleary, dreamy wistfulness. “So you’re going to run an honest newspaper in Fenchester, are you, son?” The visitor rose. “You bet I am!” he said jubilantly. [_Often in the vivid years to follow, the young owner of The Guardian had cause to reflect that the shrewdest professional advice which he had ever disregarded came from one who had just “stuck” him with an all-but-ruinous bargain._] Late as was the interview, he could n’t go to bed without telling Andrew Galpin. Much depended on that astute youth. Jeremy routed him out of bed, at his boarding-house. “Come out and get a rarebit and a stein of beer, Andy.” “Ay-a-a-ah!” yawned Galpin. “Watsamatter with you? What time is it?” “Quarter to one.” “You’re crazy, young fellow.” “I’m worse than that. I’ve just bought The Guardian.” “_What!_” “That’s what.” “Where’d you get the money?” “Left to me.” “How much did you pay?” “Seventy thousand.” “Seventy! You fat-wit!” “What’s the matter with that?” asked Jeremy, crestfallen. “Twenty thousand nice, fat, round, cool dollars is what’s the matter with it. Why did n’t you tell me?” “Did n’t have the time. I caught Wymett when he was scared.” “He caught you when you were easy,” retorted Galpin in disgust. “How did you happen to get stuck for seventy?” Jeremy looked sulky. “I figured it out on a basis of advertising and circulation.” “Oh, hell! You poor innocent!” These unpalatable observations he left his caller to digest while he retired to wash his face. In the act of lacing up his left boot he remarked: “You could have got it for fifty. Fifty-five at the outside.” “It ought to make eight thousand a year.” “On paper,” was Galpin’s laconic comment. He looked up from his right boot. “Its advertising rate card is all bunk. Rotten with rebates.” “Oh!” said Jeremy blankly. “Anyway, it can be made to make money,” he added, recovering. “Maybe. How much reserve have you got?” “Oh, about fifteen thousand.” “It’ll eat that in the first year,” observed Galpin, slipping into his suspenders. A dismayed silence fell between the friends. “Well, come on,” said Jeremy finally. “I’m afraid I’ll spoil your appetite.” “You have n’t improved it,” admitted Jeremy. “So you think I’ve made a fool of myself.” “I think you’ve bought a dog, and an old dog.” “It can be taught new tricks.” “A yellow dog.” “It hasn’t always been yellow. It needn’t keep on being.” “I don’t think you’ll be comfortable in its hide.” “Andy, I’d counted on you.” Galpin stopped buttoning his waistcoat and looked up. “For what?” “To help me make a real newspaper.” “As how?” “General manager.” “Is that why you’re asking me out to beer up, young fellow?” “Yes.”