Micky strolled into the Courier's local room one evening, and, after hanging up his overcoat and hat, removed also his under coat and unbuttoned his vest. He then leisurely detached his cuffs and rolled up his shirt sleeves, to get arm-room, as he used to term it. Then, having indulged a taste for preliminaries which he was fond of observing, whenever he had the time, he sailed in. A half hour later he had finished his task and turned in the copy. There was a temporary lull, and O'Byrn leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his red head, and dreamily watched the rings of smoke wreathing upward from the tip of his cigar. "Wherever did you get a gash like that?" inquired a voice behind him, and Micky felt a finger touch his wrist. Mead, who also chanced to be disengaged at the moment, took an adjacent chair and stretched himself out comfortably for a chat. Micky lazily extended his right arm and bestowed a curious glance upon a long, livid scar, just above the wrist. "Oh, that?" he answered. "That was an accident. Got it when I was too young to remember. Beastly night, eh?" "Yes, trying to blow up a nasty rain, I guess. Where've you been tonight?" "Oh, out in society," grinned Micky. "Harkins sent me to do that Van Courts' recep' 'nd ball. Careless servants, though. I was glad to get away alive." "Why?" "Well, I was discreetly in the background, of course, and was edging across to get a better view when I fell over a pile of things on the floor that they'd failed to brush up. Hostess gave 'em the glacial eye." "I should think she would," warmly commented Mead. "What was the stuff?" "Why, a bunch of ultras had just been standing there," demurely explained O'Byrn, "and I fell over the dropped r's, that's all." Mead viewed him darkly. "You ought to be killed," he remarked. "Such cheap and unseemly levity is unworthy of one who is pursuing this honorable, elevating, expanding career of journalism." This with an oratorical flourish. A shadow of seriousness crept into O'Byrn's twinkling eyes. "Of course you're in fun, in a way," he told Mead, "but, just the same, you're inclined to take your 'mission' seriously. My boy, you're due to shed a raft of illusions. You'll find this 'career,' as you call it, is a good deal like a hobby horse. Pleasant motion, but doesn't land you anywhere. There's nothin' to it. I heard you talking the other day about 'the great equipment it gives a fellow for a start in life.' That's all right if taken in time, like the measles, but let me tell you something. You stick at this, and stick and stick, and by the time you're ready for that start, you'll be backin' up. "You were a cub a while ago, Mead, and you made good. Naturally you feel good about that, for a lot of 'em don't. Well, you needn't feel good. You've got the germ, and it's fatal. You're to be pitied, for you're thoroughly _en rapport_ with the job."