Bobby eyed Mr. Jolter with contemplative favor. He was a stout, stockily-built man, with a square head and sparse gray hair that would persist in tangling and curling at the ends; and he perpetually kept his sleeves rolled up over his big arms. "I don't know anything about this business," confessed Bobby, "but I hope to. First of all, I'd like to find out why the _Bulletin_ has no circulation." "The lack of a spinal column," asserted Jolter. "It has had no policy, stood pat on no proposition, and made no aggressive fight on anything." "If I understand what you mean by the word," said Bobby slowly, "the _Bulletin_ is going to have a policy." It was now Mr. Jolter's turn to gaze contemplatively at Bobby. "If you were ten years older I would feel more hopeful about it," he decided bluntly. The young man flushed uncomfortably. He was keenly aware that he had made an ass of himself in business four successive times, and that Jolter knew it. By way of facing the music, however, he showed to his managing editor a letter, left behind with old Johnson for Bobby by the late John Burnit: The mere fact that a man has been foolish four times is no absolute proof that he is a fool; but it's a mighty significant hint. However, Bobby, I'm still betting on you, for by this time you ought to have your fighting blood at the right temperature; and I've seen you play great polo in spite of a cracked rib. "P. S. If any one else intimates that you are a fool, trounce him one for me." "If there's anything in heredity you're a lucky young man," said Jolter seriously, as he handed back the letter. "I think the governor was worried about it himself," admitted Bobby with a smile; "and if he was doubtful I can't blame you for being so. Nevertheless, Mr. Jolter, I must insist that we are going to have a policy," and he quietly outlined it. Mr. Jolter had been so long a directing voice in the newspaper business that he could not be startled by anything short of a presidential assassination, and that at press time. Nevertheless, at Bobby's announcement he immediately sought for his pipe and was compelled to go into his own office after it. He came back lighting it and felt better. "It's suicide!" he declared. "Then we'll commit suicide," said Bobby pleasantly. Mr. Jolter, after long, grinning thought, solemnly shook hands with him. "I'm for it," said he. "Here's hoping that we survive long enough to write our own obituary!" Mr. Jolter, to whom fighting was as the breath of new-mown hay, and who had long been curbed in that delightful occupation, went back into his own office with a more cheerful air than he had worn for many a day, and issued a few forceful orders, winding up with a direction to the press foreman to prepare for ten thousand extra copies that evening.