My instinct, right or wrong, was to protect Brodie, a man who had shown me real kindness. I remembered the meals, for one thing. In any case, it was not for me to express opinions, much less to bring an accusation. And, towards the end of a gruelling half-hour, I began to feel a shade more comfortable. When, with a slightly different manner, the fire marshal began to ask personal questions about my own career, I felt the day was almost won. I gave a quick outline of my recent history, though I never once mentioned the name of Mullins; let fall the detail, too, that I was an Irishman, and, a little later, seizing an opening with an audacity that surprised myself even while I said the words, I congratulated Mr. Mitchell upon his campaign to crush out the far too frequent arson in the city. “As a newspaper man,” I gave this blessing, and the shot, I instantly saw, went home. If I could be of any use to him on the _Times_, if any suspicious case came my way, I added that I should always be glad to serve him. For the first time the fire marshal smiled. I shot in a swift last stroke for Brodie, though an indirect one. “But you don’t want any _mis_fires,” I ventured, inwardly delighted that the play on the word amused him. “A big case that failed of a conviction would be damaging.” We shook hands as I left soon after, though the final comfort he denied me. For when I mentioned that my present address would always find me “if you need me again,” he merely bowed and thanked me. He did _not_ say, as I hoped he would, “your presence will not be required any more.” CHAPTER XXXII Six weeks later, when the torrid summer heat was waning and September breezes had begun to cool the streets, the nights, at any rate, I found myself a reporter on the staff of the _New York Times_. My salary of $35 a week seemed incredible. It was like coming into a fortune, and its first effect was to make a miser of me. I had learned the value of the single cent; I found myself fearful of spending even that cent. I understood why people who pass suddenly from want to affluence become stingy, complaining always of being hard-up. I determined to save. I opened an account in a Savings Bank against another rainy day. This trait, acquired in my unhappy New York period, remains in me still, I notice. Never have I known from that time to this what it means to be comfortably off, free from financial anxiety for more than a month or two ahead, yet each time an extra bit of money comes in, I am aware of the instinct to be extremely, unnecessarily careful of each penny. The less I have, the more reckless I feel about spending it, and _vice versa_.