“LOAN TRAIN ROBBER VISITS OFFICE OF _NEWS_ TO PAY HIS RESPECTS” while underneath, in italics, was a full account of how _willingly_ he had visited the _News_ because of its immense commercial, moral and other forms of superiority. Was Binns beaten? Well, rather! And did he feel it? He suffered tortures, not only for days, but for weeks and months, absolute tortures. The very thought of Collins made him want to rise and slay him. “To think,” he said over and over to himself, “that a low dog like Collins on whom I wouldn’t wipe my feet intellectually, as it were, could do this to me! He hypnotized me, by George! He did! He can! Maybe he could do it again! I wonder if he knows? Am I really the lesser and this scum the greater? Do writers grow on trees?” Sad thought. And some weeks later, meeting his old enemy one day on the street, he had the immense dissatisfaction of seeing the light of triumph and contempt in his eyes. The latter was so bold now, and getting along so well as a _reporter_, or “newspaper man,” that he had the hardihood to leer, sniff and exclaim: “These swell reporters! These high-priced ink-slingers! Say, who got the best of the train robber story, huh?” And Binns replied---- But never mind what Binns replied. It wouldn’t be fit to read, and no publisher would print it anyhow. OLD ROGAUM AND HIS THERESA In all Bleecker Street was no more comfortable doorway than that of the butcher Rogaum, even if the first floor was given over to meat market purposes. It was to one side of the main entrance, which gave ingress to the butcher shop, and from it led up a flight of steps, at least five feet wide, to the living rooms above. A little portico stood out in front of it, railed on either side, and within was a second or final door, forming, with the outer or storm door, a little area, where Mrs. Rogaum and her children frequently sat of a summer’s evening. The outer door was never locked, owing to the inconvenience it would inflict on Mr. Rogaum, who had no other way of getting upstairs. In winter, when all had gone to bed, there had been cases in which belated travelers had taken refuge there from the snow or sleet. One or two newsboys occasionally slept there, until routed out by Officer Maguire, who, seeing it half open one morning at two o’clock, took occasion to look in. He jogged the newsboys sharply with his stick, and then, when they were gone, tried the inner door, which was locked. “You ought to keep that outer door locked, Rogaum,” he observed to the phlegmatic butcher the next evening, as he was passing, “people might get in. A couple o’ kids was sleepin’ in there last night.” “Ach, dot iss no difference,” answered Rogaum pleasantly. “I haf der inner door locked, yet. Let dem sleep. Dot iss no difference.” “Better lock it,” said the officer, more to vindicate his authority than anything else. “Something will happen there yet.”