According to the New York _Press_, when John C. Reid was managing editor of the _Times_ he had an office-boy whose nerve and cheek were colossal. Greatness never embarrassed him, for he was no respecter of persons. One day he entertained in the reception-room a waiting visitor, whose patronizing way nettled him. All kinds of questions concerning his life and occupation were fired at him, and finally he was asked how much he earned a week. His reply was, "Fifty dollars," which caused the interrogator to whistle. At that moment the visitor was summoned by Reid, to whom he related his experience with an office-boy who said he made fifty dollars a week. Reid rang bell; enter boy. "Did you tell this gentleman that you made fifty dollars a week here?" "I did not tell him any such thing." "What! You mean to say you didn't tell me a moment or two ago that you made fifty dollars a week?" "Never said any such thing." "Why, you little liar! You--" "What did you tell the gentleman?" put in Reid. "I told him I earned fifty dollars a week; but you pay me only three dollars." The visitor was so excited that he forgot his business with the managing editor. When he had taken leave of the office Reid raised the boy's salary to six dollars. * * * * * The late Jay Gould used to tell a good story of Mr. William M. Travers. As Mr. Gould related it, he described Mr. Travers's going downtown to a dog-fancier's place in Water Street, New York, in search of a rat-terrier. The dog-fancier scented the value of his possible customer at once, and cheerfully dilated upon the merits of the different canines in stock. Finally, he selected a ratter, assuring Mr. Travers that the dog would go for a rat quicker than lightning. Mr. Travers was rather sceptical as he observed the shivering pup, and the dog-fancier noticing this, said, "Here, I'll show you how he'll go for a rat," and he put the dog in a box with a big rat. The rat made a dive and laid out that unfortunate terrier in a second. Mr. Travers turned around to the fancier and said, "I say, Johnny, what will you take for the rat?" * * * * * An Oakland, California, bootblack deserves special mention as an honest man who would not deceive his patrons. When he first went into business, six years ago, he put up a sign which read: "Joe Garibaldi, bootblack. Has two small children." Each succeeding year found him deserving of more sympathy, for he kept amending the sign, until it read eight small children. A few days ago Joe's bootblack stand was locked for a whole day, and when he returned the next morning, he confided to the butcher's boy that his baby had died. His first work was to amend the sign so that it might not mislead the public, and it then read: "Joe Garibaldi, bootblack. Has seven small children." Then, to avoid being placed in a false position before the public, he added with his finger and shoe-blacking, "One he die."