“Certainly not,” was the reply. “I am afraid the boy is subject to hallucinations.” “You certainly did say it!” cried Miggsy hotly. “And I’ve made good! I’ve brought you them pictures. What more do you want?” Tears came to the boy’s eyes. “I’ve queered myself with the _Bulletin_,” he sobbed. “I can’t go back there now. I’ll be out of work, and me mudder needs every cent I make. Please, please, Mr. Gale, if you won’t let me cover police, find somethin’ else for me to do in the _Chronicle_ office.” The proprietor of the _Chronicle_ shook his head. “I regret to say there are no vacancies,” he said coldly. “We couldn’t find room for you here even as an office boy. Besides, I am afraid you are not quite honest, young man. The fact that you have pilfered those pictures has made a bad impression upon me. It is my belief that a man or a boy who would steal for me would also steal from me.” He turned to the younger Gale. “My son, I will trouble you to put this noisy boy outside,” he said. CHAPTER XXIII. THE SAME GAME. Miss Melba Gale, having occasion to consult her uncle about a household matter which required immediate attention, decided to visit him at his office. As she neared the Chronicle Building, she encountered a fourteen-year-old boy who was sobbing as though his young heart were breaking. Even if this boy had been a total stranger to Melba, the chances are that she would have stopped to inquire the cause of his unrestrained grief, for she was the most tender-hearted and sympathetic of girls. But the fact that she recognized him as Fred Carroll’s office boy, who had on several occasions been the bearer of missives from that young man to her, added greatly to her interest. “Why, Miggsy,” she exclaimed, stepping up to the grief-stricken lad. “What is the matter?” The weeping boy removed his knuckles from his eyes long enough to learn the identity of his fair interrogator. “I want to die!” he wailed. “I’ve queered meself with the _Bulletin_, and I’ve been handed a lemon by the _Chronicle_. I want to die. It ain’t no use livin’ any more.” Melba stared at him in astonishment, unable to make head or tail of this lament. Then she laid her small, gloved hand gently on his shoulder. “Don’t be silly, Miggsy,” she said softly. “You mustn’t talk in that wild fashion. Come with me to the drug store across the street, and tell me all about it while we’re drinking an ice-cream soda.” But Miggsy shook his head disconsolately. Ice-cream sodas, although he was exceedingly partial to them under other and happier circumstances, did not appeal to him in the slightest in his present state of mine.