"Forget your stomach," said Howe. "If a subordinate may make a suggestion, we must get out a newspaper. Ah, whom have we here?" A stocky, red-faced man appeared from the inner room and stood regarding them. "Where's Mears and Elliott?" he demanded. "On a train, riding far," said O'Neill. "I am the new managing editor. What can I do for you?" "You can give me four columns of copy for the last page of to-morrow's _Mail_," said the stocky man calmly. "I'm foreman of something in there we call a composing-room. Glad to meet you." "Four columns," mused O'Neill. "Four columns of what?" The foreman pointed to a row of battered books on a shelf. "It's been the custom," he said, "to fill up with stuff out of that encyclopedia there." "Thanks," O'Neill answered. He took down a book. "We'll fix you up in ten minutes. Mr. Howe, will you please do me two columns on--er--mulligatawny--murder--mushrooms. That's it. On mushrooms. The life-story of the humble little mushroom. I myself will dash off a column or so on the climate of Algeria." The foreman withdrew, and Howe and O'Neill stood looking at each other. "Once," said O'Neill, "I ran an editorial page in Boston, where you can always fill space by printing letters from citizens who wish to rewrite Lincoln's Gettysburg Address, and do it right. But I never struck anything like this before." "Me either," said Howe. "Mushrooms, did you say?" They sat down before typewriters. "One thing worries me," remarked O'Neill. "If we'd asked the president of the First National Bank for jobs, do you suppose we'd be in charge there now?" "Write, man, write," said Howe. The clatter of their fingers on the keys filled the room. They looked up suddenly ten minutes later to find a man standing between them. He was a little man, clad all in white, suit, shoes, stockings. His sly old face was a lemon yellow, and his eyes suggested lights flaming in the dark woods at night. "Beg pardon," said the little man. "Ah, and what can we do for you?" inquired O'Neill. "Nothing. Mr. Mears? Mr. Elliott?" "Gone. Vamosed. You are now speaking to the managing editor of the _Mail_." "Ah. Indeed?" "We are very busy. If you'll just tell me what you want--" "I merely dropped in. I am Manuel Gonzale, owner of the _Mail_." "Good lord!" cried O'Neill. "Do not be disturbed. I take it you gentlemen have replaced Mears and Elliott. I am glad. Let them go. You look like bright young men to me--quite bright enough. I employ you." "Thanks," stammered the managing editor. "Don't mention it. Here is Madame On Dit's column for to-morrow. It runs on the first page. As for the rest of the paper, suit yourselves." O'Neill took the copy, and glanced through it. "Are there no libel laws down here?" he asked. "The material in that column," said the little man, his eyes narrowing, "concerns only me. You must understand that at once." "The Madame writes hot stuff," ventured O'Neill.