"Nothing doing," said the bearded man firmly. "Sorry to dash your hopes--always ready to pour another drink. But--there are no vacancies here. No, sir. Two of us are plenty and running over, eh, Bill?" "Plenty and running over," agreed the city editor warmly. Into their boots tumbled the hearts of the two strangers in a strange land. Gloom and hunger engulfed them. But the managing editor of the _Mail_ was continuing--and what was this he was saying? "No, boys--we don't need a staff. Have just as much use for a manicure set. But--you come at an opportune time. _Wanderlust_--it tickles the soles of four feet to-night, and those four feet are editorial feet on the _Mail_. Something tells us that we are going away from here. Boys--how would you like our jobs?" He stared placidly at the two strangers. O'Neill put one hand to his head. "See me safely to my park bench, Harry," he said. "It was that drink on an empty stomach. I'm all in a daze. I hear strange things." "I hear 'em, too," said Howe. "See here"--he turned to Mears--"are you offering to resign in our favor?" "The minute you say the word." "Both of you?" "Believe me," said the city editor, "you can't say the word too soon." "Well," said Howe, "I don't know what's the matter with the place, but you can consider the deal closed." "Spoken like a sport!" The bearded man stood up. "You can draw lots to determine who is to be managing editor and who city editor. It's an excellent scheme--I attained my proud position that way. One condition I attach. Ask no questions. Let us go out into the night unburdened with your interrogation points." Elliott, too, stood. The bearded man indicated the bottle. "Fill up, boys. I propose a toast. To the new editors of the _Mail_. May Heaven bless them and bring them safely back to the North when Florida's fitful fever is past." Dizzily, uncertainly, Howe and O'Neill drank. Mr. Mears reached out a great red hand toward the bottle. "Pardon me--private property," he said. He pocketed it. "We bid you good-by and good luck. Think of us on the choo-choo, please. Riding far--riding far." "But--see here--" cried O'Neill. "But me no buts," said Mears again. "Nary a question, I beg of you. Take our jobs, and if you think of us at all, think of gleaming rails and a speeding train. Once more--good-by." The door slammed. O'Neill looked at Howe. "Fairies," he muttered, "or the D.T's. What is this--a comic opera or a town? You are managing editor, Harry. I shall be city editor. Is there a city to edit? No matter." "No," said Howe. He reached for the greasy pack of cards. "We draw for it. Come on. High wins." "Jack," announced Mr. O'Neill. "Deuce," smiled Howe. "What are your orders, sir?" O'Neill passed one hand before his eyes. "A steak," he muttered. "Well done. Mushroom sauce. French fried potatoes. I've always dreamed of running a paper some day. Hurry up with that steak."