He turned into the store, opening the door carefully, and thereby barely escaping being blown violently against a stout, excited, middle-aged little Jew who was bending over a box he was packing. This was evidently Mr. Munsberg, who was extremely busy, and even the modified shock upset his temper. “Vhere you goin'?” he cried out. “Can't you look vhere you're goin'?” Tembarom knew this was not a good beginning, but his natural mental habit of vividly seeing the other man's point of view helped him after its usual custom. His nice grin showed itself. “I wasn't going; I was coming,” he said. “Beg pardon. The wind's blowing a hundred miles an hour.” A good-looking young woman, who was probably Mrs. Munsberg, was packing a smaller box behind the counter. Tembarom lifted his hat, and she liked it. “He didn't do it a bit fresh,” she said later. “Kind o' nice.” She spoke to him with professional politeness. “Is there anything you want?” she asked. Tembarom glanced at the boxes and packages standing about and at Munsberg, who had bent over his packing again. Here was an occasion for practical tact. “I've blown in at the wrong time,” he said. “You're busy getting things out on time. I'll just wait.. Gee! I'm glad to be inside. I want to speak to Mr. Munsberg.” Mr. Munsberg jerked himself upright irascibly, and broke forth in the accent of the New York German Jew. “If you comin' in here to try to sell somedings, young man, joost you let that same vind vat blew you in blow you right out pretty quick. I'm not buyin' nodings. I'm busy.” “I'm not selling a darned thing,” answered Tembarom, with undismayed cheer. “You vant someding?” jerked out Munsberg. “Yes, I want something,” Tembarom answered, “but it's nothing any one has to pay for. I'm only a newspaper man.” He felt a glow of pride as he said the words. He was a newspaper man even now. “Don't let me stop you a minute. I'm in luck to get inside anywhere and sit down. Let me wait.” Mrs. Munsberg read the Sunday papers and revered them. She also knew the value of advertisement. She caught her husband's eye and hurriedly winked at him. “It's awful outside. 'T won't do harm if he waits--if he ain't no agent,” she put in. “See,” said Tembarom, handing over one of the cards which had been Little Ann's businesslike inspiration. “T. Tembarom. New York Sunday Earth,” read Munsberg, rather grudgingly. He looked at T. Tembarom, and T. Tembarom looked back at him. The normal human friendliness in the sharp boyish face did it. “Vell,” he said, making another jerk toward a chair, “if you ain't no agent, you can vait.” “Thank you,” said Tembarom, and sat down. He had made another start, anyhow.