But above all, this stout little man of fifty knew men. It was he who discovered Burton Phipps, their star descriptive writer, had sent him off to Norway to intercept and expose the sham explorer of the Pole. Jane, the finest parliamentary sketch writer in England, was trained under his hands. Merton, the editor of the _Morning Telegraph_, Layman, the President of the Board of Trade, Reddington, chairman of the United Banks--all had groaned in their youth under his merciless yoke of discipline. Loved and feared, he spared no man, and he never encountered rebellion because he never pitied himself. "Merritt's a devil," every one said--"but a wonderful devil," they added. He took John in hand. He made him compress a column of wonderful writing to fifteen living lines. He made him re-dress a plain narrative in a style that "tickled." He told John to use words of as few syllables as possible. "All sub-editors are ignorant and full of malice," he said, with traditional jealousy. He was never to worry about what the public thought of this or that. "The public don't think, they follow." It was a heartbreaking apprenticeship. The fine column on the Kennel Show went into the waste paper basket. "There's two murders come in and the subs say we're overset." He ridiculed a "special" on teashop girls with rapier wit, told John he wrote too fast to write well, and was as guileless as an infant in arms. Once, with a brusque committal of a much-esteemed article, he brought misery to John's eyes, saw it, and growled, "You're a journalist all right, but your stalk's green," and with his wry smile brought a lump into the youth's throat. "Am I--am I giving satisfaction, Mr. Merritt?" The chief reporter looked over the top of his glasses-- "The Chief sent you to me for occasional work. You've done a banquet, a dog-show, four police courts, three inquests, two plays, a poster show and several special enquiries. You've been running about like a hare for ten days--you've not been an occasional, but a daily event. And I don't waste my time!" It was true, John was worked hard every day. Each night the diary had the initials J.D. with a cryptic assignation following. Sometimes he accompanied a senior, a note-taker, and looked out for a descriptive paragraph; more often he was alone. On the night that he had returned from his first play, after he had sent in his pencilled copy to the subs room, he looked at the diary and almost jumped in exultation.--"J.D. 7.15., Artists Union, Chelsea Theatre, half col." Here was his chance! IV