"An exceedingly pretty girl smiled at me on my way down town, Trinkle," he said exultantly. "That begins to look as though the backbone of this suffragette strike was broken. What?" "You've got a dent in your derby; it may have been that," said Mr. Trinkle. Mr. Melnor hastily removed his hat and punched out the dent. "I'm not so sure it was that," he said, flushing up. Mr. Trinkle gazed gloomily out of the window. For an hour they talked business; then Mr. Melnor was ready to go. "How are my nephews getting on?" he asked. "Something rotten," replied Mr. Trinkle truthfully. "What's the matter with 'em?" "Everything--except a talent for business." "You mean to say they exhibit no aptitude?" "Not the slightest." Mr. Melnor seized his overcoat from the hook. Mr. Trinkle offered to hold it for him. The offer irritated the wealthy owner of the _Star_, who suspected that the city editor meant to intimate that he, Mr. Melnor, was too old to get into his own overcoat without assistance. "Never mind!" he said ungratefully. He fussed at the carnation in his buttonhole, picked up his doggy walking stick, glanced over his carefully pressed trousers and light coloured spats, strolled across to the mirror, and leisurely drew on his new gloves. "Mr. Trinkle," he began more complacently, "what I want you to always bear in mind is that my pup nephews require a thorough grilling! I want you to bully 'em! Suppress 'em! Squelch, nag, worry, sit on 'em!" "I have," said the city editor with satisfaction. "They loathe me." "Do it some more, then! I won't permit any nepotism in this office! If you don't keep after 'em they'll turn into little beastly journalists instead of into decent, self-respecting newspaper men! Have either of my nephews attempted to write any more poetry for the Saturday supplement?" "Young Sayre got away with some verses." "Wha' d'ye do with 'em?" growled Mr. Melnor. "Printed 'em." "_Printed_ them! Are--you--craz-y?" "Don't worry. Sayre got no signature out of me." "But _why_ did you print?" "Because those verses were too devilish good to lose. You must have read them. It was that poem _Amourette_." "Did _he_ do _that_?" "Yes; and the entire sentimental press of the country is now copying it without credit." "My nephew wrote _Amourette_?" repeated Mr. Melnor with mingled emotions. "He sure did. That poem seemed to deal a direct blow at this suffragette strike. Several women subscribers sent in mash notes. I had a mind to take advantage of one or two myself." Pride and duty contended in the breast of Augustus Melnor; duty won. "That's what I told you!" he snapped; "those pups will begin to write for the magazines if you don't look out!" "Well _I_ tell _you_ that they've no nose for news--no real instinct--and they might as well write for the backs of the magazines."