"One newspaper," he announced. "The _Evening Chronicle_. Suppose the office is locked for the night--but come along, let's try." "Feed or otherwise annoy," muttered the little man blankly. "For the love of Allah--alms!" They traversed several side streets, and came at last to the office of the _Chronicle_. It was a modest structure, verging on decay. One man sat alone in the dim interior, reading exchanges under an electric lamp. "Good evening," said the short man genially. "Are you the editor?" "Uh, huh," responded the _Chronicle_ man without enthusiasm, from under his green eye-shade. "Glad to know you. We just dropped in--a couple of newspaper men, you know. This is Mr. Harry Howe, until recently managing editor of the Mobile _Press_. My own name is Robert O'Neill--a humble editorial writer on the same sheet." "Uh, huh. If you had jobs for God's sake why did you leave them?" "Ah, you may well ask." The red-haired one dropped, uninvited, into a chair. "Old man, it's a dramatic story. The chief of police of Mobile happened to be a crook and a grafter, and we happened to mention it in the _Press_. Night before last twenty-five armed cops invaded the peace and sanctity of our sanctum. Harry and I--pure accident--landed in the same general heap at the foot of the fire-escape out back. And here we are! Here we are!" "My newspaper instinct," said the _Chronicle_ man, "had already enabled me to gather that last." Sarcasm. It was a bad sign. But blithely Bob O'Neill continued. "Here we are," he said, "two experienced newspaper men, down and out. We thought there might possibly be a vacancy or two on the staff of your paper--" The editor threw off his eye-shade, revealing a cynical face. "Boys," he said, "I thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I've been running this alleged newspaper for two long dreary years, and this laugh you've just handed me is the first I've had during that time. Vacancies! There is one--a big one. See my pocket for particulars. Two years, boys. And all the time hoping--praying--that some day I'd make two dollars and sixty cents, which is the railroad fare to the next town." Howe and O'Neill listened with faces that steadily grew more sorrowful. "I'd like to stake you to a meal," the editor went on. "But a man's first duty is to his family. Any burglar will tell you that." "I suppose," ventured O'Neill, most of the flash gone from his manner, "there is no other newspaper here?" "No, there isn't. There's a weird thing here called the _San Marco Mail_--a morning outrage. It's making money, but by different methods than I'd care to use. You might try there. You look unlucky. Perhaps they'd take you on." He rose from his chair, and gave them directions for reaching the _Mail_ office.