Galbraithe lowered his dress suit case, and wiped his forehead. Every one in the room took a suspicious glance at the bag. "Ever hear of Sanderson?" Galbraithe inquired of Green. "Nope." "Ever hear of Wadlin or Jerry Donahue or Cartwright?" Green kicked a chair toward him. "Sit down, old man," he suggested. "You'll feel better in a minute." "Ever hear of Hartson? Ever hear of old Jim Hartson?" "That's all right," Green encouraged him. "If you have a line in that bag you think will interest us, bring it out. It's against office rules, but--" Galbraithe tried to recall if, on his way downtown, he had inadvertently stopped anywhere for a cocktail. He had no recollection of so doing. Perhaps he was a victim of a mental lapse--one of those freak blank spaces of which the alienists were talking so much lately. He made one more attempt to place himself. In his day he had been one of the star reporters of the staff. "Ever hear of--of Galbraithe?" he inquired anxiously. By this time several men had gathered around the two desks as interested spectators. Galbraithe scanned their faces, but he didn't recognize one of them. "Haven't got a card about your person, have you?" inquired Green. "Why, yes," answered Galbraithe, fumbling for his case. The group watched him with some curiosity, and Harding, the youngest man, scenting a story, pushed to the front. With so many eyes upon him Galbraithe grew so confused that he couldn't find his card case. "I'm sure I had it with me," he apologized. "Remember where you were last night?" inquired Green. "Just got in this morning," answered Galbraithe. "I--here it is." He drew out a card and handed it to Green. The group gathered closer and read it. "Harvey L. Galbraithe, Trego County Courier." Green solemnly extended his hand. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Galbraithe. Up here on business, or pleasure?" "I used to work here," explained Galbraithe. "I came up on a vacation to see the boys." "Used to work on this sheet?" exclaimed Green, as though doubting it. "I left five years ago," answered Galbraithe. "Holy Smoke!" exclaimed Green, with a low whistle. "You are sure some old-timer. Let's see--that's over fifteen hundred days ago. When did you come on?" "Just before the Spanish War," answered Galbraithe eagerly. "Hartson sent me to Cuba." Harding came closer, his eyes burning with new interest. "Gee," he exclaimed, "those must have been great days. I ran across an old codger at the Press Club once who was with Dewey at Manila." He spoke as Galbraithe might speak of the Crimean War. He pressed the latter for details, and Galbraithe, listening to the sound of his own voice, allowed himself to be led on. When he was through he felt toothless, and as though his hair had turned gray. "Those were the happy days," exclaimed Harding. "The game was worth playing then--eh, old man?" "Yes," mumbled Galbraithe. "But don't any of you know what has become of Hartson?" "Haydon would probably remember him--"