It was ten o'clock before Yetta could get away. Coming across on the elevated, she had her first chance to look at the yesterday's issue of _The Clarion_. It caused a revulsion from her feeling of enthusiasm over a working-man's paper. What a pitiful sheet it was! How different in tone and quality from the one Walter had talked of so glowingly! It was not only unattractive in appearance. There was not a detail which, to Yetta's trained eye, seemed well done. The headlines of her own story, which spread across the top of the front page, were crude. A dozen better ones suggested themselves to her. The mistakes they had made in expanding her telephone message to two columns were ludicrous and vexatious. What else was there in the paper? The rest of the front page was filled with telegrams which had been news several hours before it had gone to press! The second page--it was headed "Labor News"--offended Yetta especially. It was mostly "exchange paragraphs" clipped from trade journals. The original matter was written by some one who did not understand nor sympathize with the Trade-Union Movement, who evidently thought that every worker who was not a party member was mentally defective. The only spark of personality on the last page was Isadore's editorial. It was a bit ponderous and long-drawn-out, but at least it was intense and thoughtful. The cartoon was poorly drawn and required an analytic mind to discover the point. Yetta found it hard to believe that twelve thousand people had been willing to buy so uninteresting a paper when they could get the bright, snappy, sixteen-page _Star_ for the same money. She was tired and discouraged when she reached the office. "I'm not a headline writer," she said as she tossed her copy on Levine's table, "but I've ground out some that aren't quite so stupid as those you ran yesterday." Without waiting for his retort she went on to Isadore's desk. "Here's a note from Stringer," he said as a greeting. She tore it open listlessly. "Well! That's a nervy piece of business," she said, throwing it into the waste-paper basket. "Electing me without asking my consent." "Won't you serve?" "No." Isadore leaned back in his swivel chair and puffed nervously at his cigarette. "Don't you think the job's worth doing?" "It's worth doing well--but not like this." It seemed to Isadore that a word of encouragement from her would have put new life into him. But she--like everybody else--had only criticism. He had a foolish desire to cry and an equally insane desire to curse. He managed to do neither. "Well, what would you suggest? To bring it up to your standard of worth-while-ness?" "It'll never be a newspaper till the front page gets over this day-before-yesterday look--for one thing."