"I can see where we all contribute for a beautiful Gates Ajar floral piece for one Robert Burnit;" whereupon fat "Bugs" Roach, "handling copy" across the table from him, inquired: "Do you suppose the new boss really has this much nerve, or is he just a damned fool?" "Stone won't do a thing to _him_!" ingratiatingly observed a "cub" reporter, laying down twelve pages of "copy" about a man who had almost been burglarized. "Look here, you Greenleaf Whittier Squiggs," said Doc Miller most savagely, not because he had any particular grudge against the unfortunately named G. W., but because of discipline and the custom with "cubs," "the next time you're sent out on a twenty-minute assignment like this, remember the number of the _Bulletin_, 427 Grand Street. The telephone is Central 2051, and don't forget to report the same day. Did you get the man's name? Uh-huh. His address? Uh-huh. Well, we don't want the item." Slow and phlegmatic Jim Brown, who had been city editor on the _Bulletin_ almost since it was the _Bulletin_ under half a dozen changes of ownership and nearly a score of managing editors, sauntered over into Jolter's room with a copy of the paper in his hand, and a long black stogie held by some miracle in the corner of his mouth, where it would be quite out of the road of conversation. "Pretty good stuff," he drawled, indicating the remarkable first page. "The greatest circus act that was ever pulled off in the newspaper business," asserted Jolter. "It will quadruple the present circulation of the _Bulletin_ in a week." "Make or break," assented the city editor, "with the odds in favor of the break." A slenderly-built young man, whose red face needed a shave and whose clothes, though wrinkled and unbrushed, shrieked of quality, came stumbling up the stairs in such hot haste as was possible in his condition, and without ceremony or announcement burst into the room where Bobby Burnit, with that day's issue of the _Bulletin_ spread out before him, was trying earnestly to get a professional idea of the proper contents of a newspaper. "Great goods, old man!" said the stranger. "I want to congratulate you on your lovely nerve," and seizing Bobby's hand he shook it violently. "Thanks," said Bobby, not quite sure whether to be amused or resentful. "Who are you?" "I'm Dillingham," announced the red-faced young man with a cheerful smile. Bobby was about to insist upon further information, when Mr. Jolter came in to introduce Brown, who had not yet met Mr. Burnit. "Dill," drawled Brown, with a twinkle in his eye, "how much money have you?" "Money to burn; money in every pocket," asserted Mr. Dillingham; "money to last for ever," and he jammed both hands in his trousers' pockets.