“You might have had, once,” Norris said, laughing; “we were all up against him once. But since he's turned out such a wonder and a war-hero, we're going to recognize it. They're always saying we newspaper men have it in for each other, and so we're just giving him this subscription-dinner to show it's not so. He's going abroad, you know. He sails to-morrow morning.” “No, I didn't know,” said Channing. “Of course not, how could you? Well, the Consolidated Press's sending him and his wife to Paris. He's to cover the Peace negotiations there. It's really a honeymoon-trip at the expense of the C. P. It's their reward for his work, for his Santiago story, and the beat and all that--” Channing's face expressed his bewilderment. Norris drew back dramatically. “Don't tell me,” he exclaimed, “that you haven't heard about that!” Channing laughed a short, frightened laugh, and moved nearer to the street. “No,” he said. “No, I hadn't.” “Yes, but, good Lord! it was the story of the war. You never read such a story! And he got it through by Panama a day ahead of all the other stories! And nobody read them, anyway. Why, Captain Mahan said it was 'naval history,' and the Evening Post had an editorial on it, and said it was 'the only piece of literature the war has produced.' We never thought Keating had it in him, did you? The Consolidated Press people felt so good over it that they've promised, when he comes back from Paris, they'll make him their Washington correspondent. He's their 'star' reporter now. It just shows you that the occasion produces the man. Come on in, and have a drink with him.” Channing pulled his arm away, and threw a frightened look toward the open door of the dining-room. Through the layers of tobacco-smoke he saw Keating seated at the head of a long, crowded table, smiling, clear-eyed, and alert. “Oh, no, I couldn't,” he said, with sudden panic. “I can't drink; doctor won't let me. I wasn't coming in, I was just passing when I saw you. Good-night, I'm much obliged. Good-night.” But the hospitable Norris would not be denied. “Oh, come in and say 'good-by' to him, anyhow,” he insisted. “You needn't stay.” “No, I can't,” Channing protested. “I--they'd make me drink or eat and the doctor says I can't. You mustn't tempt me. You say 'good-by' to him for me,” he urged. “And Norris--tell him--tell him--that I asked you to say to him, 'It's all right,' that's all, just that, 'It's all right.' He'll understand.” There was the sound of men's feet scraping on the floor, and of chairs being moved from their places. Norris started away eagerly. “I guess they're drinking his health,” he said. “I must go. I'll tell him what you said, 'It's all right.' That's enough, is it? There's nothing more?” Channing shook his head, and moved away from the only place where he was sure to find food and a welcome that night. “There's nothing more,” he said.