The _Globe_ man heard one of the bank's messengers call the policeman "Jim." Being a contemporary historian, he addressed the policeman amicably. "Jim, Mr. Goodchild says to bring in Senator Lowry and party." With that he beckoned to the _Globe_'s militant photographers and five colleagues and preceded them into the president's private office. "Quick work, Tommy," warned the reporter. "Flash?" laconically inquired "Senator Lowry." He was such a famous portraitist that his sitters never gave him time to talk. Hence his habit of speaking while he could. He prepared his flash-powder. "Yep!" and the reporter nodded. The others also unlimbered their cameras. The _Globe_ man threw open the door. The president was angrily haranguing the reporters. "Mr. Goodchild," said the _Globe_ man, "look pleasant!" Mr. Goodchild turned quickly and opened his mouth. _Bang!_ went, the flash-powder. "Hel--" shrieked Mr. Goodchild. "--p!" said the pious young _Journal_ man, with an air of completing the presidential speech. A good editor is worth his weight in pearls. The photographers' corps retreated in good order and record time. "For the third and last time will you tell us why you won't let your daughter marry Mr. Rutgers!" asked the _Globe_. "No." "Then will you tell us why you won't let Mr. Rutgers marry your daughter?" Mr. Goodchild was conservative to the last. Too many people who needed money had talked to him in the borrower's tone of voice. He could not grasp the new era. He said, "You infernal blackmailer--" "Sir," cut in the _Globe_ man, with dignity, "you are positively insulting! Be nice to the other reporters. I thank you for the interview!" He bowed and left the office, followed by all the others except the _Evening Post_ man, who, unfortunately, had never been able to rid himself of the desire to get the facts. It was partly his editor, but mostly the absence of a sense of humor. "I think, Mr. Goodchild, that you'd better give me an official statement. I'll give the Associated Press man a copy, and that will go to all the papers." "But I don't want to say anything," protested Mr. Goodchild, who always read the _Post_'s money page. "The other reporters will say it for you. I think you'd better." "He's right, Mr. Goodchild," said the vice-president. "But what the dickens can I say?" queried Mr. Goodchild, helplessly, not daring to look out of the window for fear of seeing the sandwiches. "If I were you," earnestly advised the _Post_ man, "I'd tell the truth." "What do you mean?" "Say why you won't let your daughter--" "It's preposterous!" "Say it; but also say why it is preposterous." Two directors of the bank came in. They were high in high finance. In fact, they _were_ High Finance. They therefore knew only the newspapers of an older generation, as they had proven by their testimony before a Congressional Committee. The older director looked at Mr. Goodchild and began: "Goodchild, will you tell me why--"