"Well, if it isn't the Gallant kid!" he exclaimed. "I'd almost forgotten all about you. Sit down." John sat down while Morton questioned him. No, he had never done any writing except a little for his school paper. Yes, he'd like to start in as a reporter. It didn't make much difference how much he was paid as long as he could get started. "All right, then," said Morton, rising. "We'll go over and see P. Q., but don't you ever blame him for getting you started in this game." The sporting editor led him to the fat, bald-headed man with the green eye-shade. "P. Q.," he said. The city editor looked up. "Here's the young fellow I was telling you about this morning; name's John Gallant." "P. Q."--John afterward learned that those were his initials, uniquely symbolical of his perpetual order to reporters to be "pretty quick" in their work--looked at the marks on John's face left by the fists of Battling Rodriguez. "Fighting face, all right," he said. "Well, suppose you go to work." He reached back to his desk and brought up a handful of clippings from a newspaper from which he selected a few short ones. "Grab a typewriter and rewrite these," he said, handing the clippings to John. "Keep 'em short. Twenty-five words each. Remember that always. Keep everything short. Keep your eyes and ears open and read the papers. Read everything in them. Now get over there and start writing and I'll call you when I need you." John knew that as long as he lived he would never forget that first day in newspaper work. He rewrote the clippings carefully, counting the words to make certain that they did not exceed the twenty-five ordered by P. Q. He had done some typewriting at school and practiced more by filling page after page of copy paper with the old favorite beginner's sentence, "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party," and its twin, "The quick, brown fox jumped over the lazy dog." He watched in open-mouthed wonder at the speed with which the other reporters--he counted himself one of them--wrote their stories. He learned that everything written for a newspaper is a "story," everything from a three-line item about a meeting of the Colorado State society to a banner-line murder. He was fascinated by a reporter whom P. Q. called Brennan and who worked at a typewriter close to where he was sitting. Brennan, thin-faced, about thirty, John judged, turned out page after page of typewritten copy, stopping at the completion of each page to throw back his head and shout: "Boy! Oh, BOY!" at the ceiling. In response to this call a copy boy appeared and carried the page to P. Q. As he worked he smoked cigarettes, lighting each fresh one from the stub of the one that preceded it. These cigarettes he carefully stood on end on the desk as his fingers pounded at the typewriter.