“Georgie, there's a man in the offis wot I sed was a red-hedded old snoozer wot ort to be run outer town. Tell him I've gone to Coney Ileland to fite a duhell with Sullivan, or say I'm out takin' my mornin' pistil practise. Tell him enything, only get schutt of him.” I sez: “You becher life, I'll fix him.” So I went inter the sanktuary, like I own'd the hull bisness, and I seen his oner walk-in' up and down, swarin' to hisself, like he was repeetin' the responces in the 'Piscopal church. Soon as he cot site of me, he sez: “Young man, where am that red-hedded, shaller-braned, lantern-jawd, squint-eyed, crooked-knoes son of a ded beet? Show me him till I pulverise him so fine that his remanes wouldn't bring 5 cents if you was to sell em for pure superfosfated binary bone.” “Wot did you remark?” sez I. “Show me the insignificant littel puppy wot sed I was a red-hedded old snoozer,” sed he. “Oh! you wish ter see the edittur. I'll call him,” sez I. [Illustration: A GENTLEMAN, WANTS TO INTER VUEHIM. ] Then I went to the speakin tube wot goes up inter the composin-room, and sung out orful loud: “Tell the fitin edittur that there's a gentleman, down in the offis, wants to intervue him. Tell him he'd better lode up his dubble-barrl'd, breech-lodin blunderbuss with dannymite cartrag cos the gentleman prefers a-heeted argument.” Then I turned round and told the man that the edittur 'd be down in a minnit. He cooled rite off and sed: “Thank you, my boy; there's no hurry; I guess you'll do jest as well. I only called to pay for your valuabel paper. Tell the edittur my hole family culdn't get along without it; even the baby lays awake all nite cry in' for it.” And then he handed me a $10 bill and didn't wate for no change, for he ony had a cuppel uv minnits to each a trane in. Mr. Gilley was listenin' to the hull conversashun, an', wen the coast was cleer, he come out from his hidin' place and patted me on the back and sez: “Georgie, you're a brick; you're goin' to be a onher to your perfeshun. Sum day you'll be a _Pulsitter_, cos you've got the gall of a _Sun_ reporter.” I wonder if _Sun_ reporters swet much, cos I never go golled 'less it was in summer wen pa maid me play the fiddel with the old buck saw, gettin' the wood reddy for winter. I guess I must be a hero, cos the sportin' edittur, wen he hurd wot I did, took me to the fotograf gallarv, and had my pictur taken, so as he culd pass me off for the new English prize fiter, wot he's training so as he can lick Sullivan. CHAPTER VII. HE INTERVUES ELI PERKINS AND GETS SUM POINTS ON JURNERLISTIC EGGSAGGERASHUN, PREVARICASHUN AND MAGNIFYCASHUN.--Y PULLMAN STOK IS GOIN UP.