Gale smiled. “Yes, my father does own the _Chronicle_,” he said simply. “I have come to help him run the sheet. We are going to introduce a lot of improvements, and run the paper on the lines of a New York daily. By the way, Mr.--er--Mr. ----” He paused inquiringly. “Miggles,” said the boy. “Mister Charles Miggles.” “Thank you! By the way, Mr. Miggles, one of our first changes will be to enlarge our reportorial staff. My father has asked me to get him some good men. How would you like to work for the _Chronicle_?” Miggsy could scarcely believe that he was not dreaming. Could it really be possible that this affable young man did not suspect that he was only a fourteen-year-old office boy? Could it really be that he, Miggsy, was being offered a job as a reporter on the _Chronicle_? His first impulse was to take advantage of this extraordinary opportunity which fate had thrown his way. In his precocious brain there arose the daring thought that he could make good. He had long been of the opinion that news gathering was “dead easy,” and that he could go out and cover a story as well as “some of them boobs in the _Bulletin_ office what called themselves reporters.” Once he had plucked up his courage, and asked Mr. Carroll to give him a chance at reporting. The proprietor of the _Bulletin_ had laughed in a most unfeeling manner, and told him to wait until he grew some. Miggsy frowned now as he recalled that unpleasant incident. As though it mattered what a fellow’s age was, so long as he could deliver the goods! Gale laid his hand upon the boy’s shoulder with a patronizing air. “If the proposition appeals to you at all,” he said, “suppose you come and talk it over with my father, right now, Mr. Miggles. If you are willing to make a change, I think we can put you to work immediately. How would you like to cover police?” How would he like to cover police! The job of President of the United States didn’t appeal to Miggsy nearly as much as that. His eyes sparkled at the thought. Then suddenly it occurred to him that he could not possibly bluff his way into this new job, as he had thought of doing. As soon as he entered the _Chronicle_ office he was sure to be unmasked; for unfortunately he was known to several members of that newspaper’s staff. And--alas, cruel fate!--they knew him, not as Mr. Charles Miggles, a brother scribe, but as plain Miggsy, the _Bulletin’s_ office boy. “Come, what do you say, Mr. Miggles?” said Gale, with an encouraging smile. “Will you come with me now, and talk it over with my father? I think it will pay you to do so.” Miggsy decided that candor would be his best course. After all, there was a chance that he might be able to convince this nice young man that notwithstanding his painful youth and his lack of actual experience, he was quite competent to cover police for the _Chronicle_. “I’m afraid I ain’t quite as old as I look, Mr. Gale,” he began diffidently.