“What luck” cried Selia gayly as they rode away, “it was indeed a good idear to go to the poetry school was it not! see how you have got on!” “Yes, I think we are getting on all right” he replyed for of a truth he had learnt by now that it is only the first step that hurts. CHAPTER SEVEN When they got back to the hotel, a goodly knot of persons were about the entrance and dotted in the nobel hall, and at our little heroes arrival their chatter died to a respectful hiss, and bowing nicely to right and left Harold Withersq and his Selia stamped within, but Selia wished all the to do was for her. “Toodleoo” she told her Harold “I am to get my nails done at a place.” “Done?” snarled her sweet. “How done?” “At much cost” said Selia simply so with a delited smile he drew forth the copious money and stuffed the notes in her bag which was like a crocodil with head tail and paws but it was only a little one and lined with stuff. Then Mr. Withersq waved her away so she departed getting a bit mixed up in the roundabout at the door which is only meant for fun but she got jamd. “Now gentlemen” said he stripping off his new butter coloured gloves like banana skins as he had seen heros do on the pictures, “and what may I do for you.” This he had learnt in shops in the old days so it was not very smart. Now these new folk, most men in servicable suits and white collars wearing nose-glasses before their keen eyes but a few ladys in prim attire, stepped up and they were all from newspapers, for the fame of Harold Withersq had spread and he was the talk of the hour. So that the newspapers had snapt at the chance of a bit from him. As the babbel ceased Mr. Withersq made a motion of modesty and sought to retire, but was cort short by a ruddy one in checks who asked him would he write a little for his paper, and another thin one who asked him when he was born, and a lady who commanded him to tell her about love for the ladys page. All agog Mr. Withersq who was never one to lose a chance, made to tell them, knowing no guile, when a sudden thought smote him, he clasped his brow rather earnest for a moment, then brushing them from him, he darted into the glassy telephone box near by. “Hello” cried he to the invisible voice of the girl of the wires, “get me the editer of the _Daily Pull_” and so stood waiting for it. The assembled crowd breathed in distress for this was a bold move. The girl got Mr. Withersq on after he had stamped a little because of being hot in the glassy box and he sweated so much. “This is Mr. Withersq” he was heard to utter. All were aghast to think he dared to summons that great editor to the phone. The voice of our hero continued very proud for who was he to bend before editors now: