"Good night, boys," he said. "Thank you for calling. You're the first newspaper men I've seen in two years, except when I've looked in the glass. And the other day I broke my looking-glass. Good night, and bad luck go with you to the extent of jobs on the _Mail_." "Cynic," breathed O'Neill in the street. "A bitter tongue maketh a sour face. I liked him not. A morning outrage called the _Mail_. Sounds promising--like smallpox in the next county." "We shall see," said Howe, "that which meets our vision. Forward, march!" "The alligator and I," muttered O'Neill, "famished, perishing. For the love of Allah, as I remarked before, alms!" In the dark second-floor hallway where the _Mail_ office was suspected of being, they groped about determinedly. No sign of any nature proclaimed San Marco's only morning paper. A solitary light, shining through a transom, beckoned. Boldly O'Neill pushed open the door. To the knowing nostrils of the two birds of passage was wafted the odor they loved, the unique inky odor of a newspaper shop. Their eyes beheld a rather bare room, a typewriter or two, a desk. In the center of the room was a small table under an electric lamp. On this table was a bottle and glasses, and at it two silent men played poker. One of the men was burly and bearded; the other was slight, pale, nervous. From an inner room came the click of linotypes--lonesome linotypes that seemed to have strayed far from their native haunts. The two men finished playing the hand, and looked up. "Good evening," said O'Neill, with a smile that had drawn news as a magnet draws steel in many odd corners. "Gentlemen, four newspaper men meet in a strange land. I perceive you have on the table a greeting unquestionably suitable." The bearded man laughed, rose and discovered two extra glasses on a near-by shelf. "Draw up," he said heartily. "The place is yours. You're as welcome as pay-day." "Thanks." O'Neill reached for a glass. "Let me introduce ourselves." And he mentioned his own name and Howe's. "Call me Mears," said the bearded one. "I'm managing editor of the _Mail_. And this is my city editor, Mr. Elliott." "Delighted," breathed O'Neill. "A pleasant little haven you have found here. And your staff--I don't see the members of your staff running in and out?" "Mr. O'Neill," said Mears impressively, "you have drunk with the staff of the _Mail_." "You two?" O'Neill's face shone with joy. "Glory be--do you hear that, Harry? These gentlemen all alone on the premises." He leaned over, and poured out eloquently the story of the tragic flight from Mobile. "I call this luck," he finished. "Here we are, broke, eager for work. And we find you minus a--" O'Neill stopped. For he had seen a sickly smile of derision float across the face of the weary city editor. And he saw the bearded man shaking his great head violently.