“Until after the war—go from one position to another? I never heard of such a thing!” she exclaimed. “You will never make anything, taking what employers offer you.” “I’ll learn conditions and, incidentally, employers.” “But you might do so much better. With your pull even though you can’t go abroad you could land something big. There’s the publicity department——” “Allah forbid!” And even a Moslem himself could not have been more fervent. “But why not? You’re a writer, and——” “It is because I am a writer,” I interrupted. “Because I am a writer and intend some day to be an author.” “You make a distinction! Whom do you think of as authors?” “Thomas Hardy, John Galsworthy, George Eliot, Margaret Deland, Booth Tarkington, and others,” I answered, then added: “Come, let us talk about people, not books.” “All right,” she agreed pleasantly, though she still kept her feet on my chair. “You say the head of your subdepartment gets twenty-five a week—what does the head of the department receive? And what manner of individual is he or she?” “Fifty a week. A man, of course, about forty, hale and hearty, with a wife and no children. I think he must be what is called a political hanger-on. I heard him tell Mr. Jobaski that he hadn’t been without a political job for more than twenty years, just stepped from one to another.” “And Mr. Jobaski?” “Quite a young man, not more than twenty-six. He’s the head of another department and receives fifty a week. His name tells his nationality.” “Unmarried?” I nodded my head. “But he has a mother,” I added, wishing to give as good an account as possible of my fellow workers. “Dependent?” The librarian had quick-moving, clear blue eyes. There was still enough daylight for me to see that she suspected my object. “W-e-l-l,” glancing at her through the corners of my eyes and catching her watching me, I laughed, “to tell the truth Mr. Jobaski is a draft-evader, or trying to be. Miss Sneezet, my immediate boss, told me that he had been drafted, but was ‘tryin’ to keep from goin’.’ This afternoon, as a great honor, he offered to let me use his pen. He assured me it was solid gold, and given him by his mother at his last birthday. It certainly is solid something, almost as large as my thumb, with a larger emerald set in the end—really a handsome stone. For a pen! It felt more like a crowbar. Any more questions, Miss Persecuting Attorney?” “Since you don’t really enjoy the work, it must be the persons with whom you are thrown. I may as well learn your taste,” Miss Stafford informed me, and it was entirely evident that she did not approve of the plan I had mapped out for myself. “And the individuals in your department—men, women, or whatever they may be?”