When they had parted John felt he had made a new friend. That was the marvel of London. You met the men who did things; you were at the hub of creation, their names and faces were familiar with the day. Steer, Ribble, Phipps--what would some men have given for his good fortune? When he arrived back at the office, word came that the Chief wanted to see him. He went through to the Secretary's room. "Oh--Mr. Walsh's just going--I'll ask if he'll see you." He came back a moment later and ushered John in. Walsh sat at his littered desk. "Sit down, Dean. Do you know French?" "A little, sir." "Do you speak it?--can you be understood and understand?" "I--I hope so sir." Walsh smiled. "And how much Danish?" John looked surprised. "Danish, sir?" The editor laughed and then got up, putting his hand on the youth's shoulder. "Don't let that worry you--England was proud of possessing a Viking's daughter as queen, but few of us know a word of her language. On Friday, I want you to go to Copenhagen to an international telegraph conference. It will last a fortnight. Merritt will tell you what we want, and our man in Copenhagen will look after you. You will go to Harwich and cross to Esbjerg. The cashier will give you the necessary money. I hope you'll enjoy the trip. Good-bye." He touched a bell, his secretary came in, John went out. Dizzily he walked back to his room. Travel! And he was a special correspondent! He could envision the italicised words, the magic words he had seen under Phipps' name. "_Our Special Correspondent._" To Merritt he stammered out the news, but the unimpressionable Merritt seemed to know all about it. "Keep your mouth shut until you go--or others will be green with envy. They can't help it, poor fellows. Half of them are plodders, and you don't work for all you do--it's just in you, that's all. That's half the tragedy of life--to the plodders. You needn't come in to-morrow. I'll look up the boats and trains." Outside, in the street, John stood for a moment, while the world went by him. A queer fellow Merritt. How he had humbled that triumph--"half the tragedy of life--to the plodders." Somehow it made his exultation seem childish and mean. They were such good fellows too, full of kindness, and a spirit of give and take, and he, the newest among them, the cub, was racing ahead. It must be bitter. They filed before him--merry little Bewley, daring and audacious, Lawton, the dreamer and writer of rejected verse, Russell, the ponderous, saving hard for a home and sentimental about children, Johnson, who longed to retire on a farm--name after name, each coupled with hopes and ambitions. And now his chance had come. He must tell some one. He went back into the clerk's office and rang up Mrs. Graham. Yes, she was in and would be delighted if he would dine with her. At the Temple Station he booked for Sloane Square, his nearest point to her flat in Cheyne Walk. CHAPTER V I