“McWayne, the trouble with you Irish is that you are so infernally clever that plain jackasses like myself are prepared for you. I represent myself and I don't want to be paid to suppress. No blackmail here; no threats; nothing except amiability and good-will. Have you begun to accumulate a few suspicions that your taciturn boss is going to talk to me?” “I'll see!” promised McWayne, non-committally; but he was so perturbed that he could not help showing it. Doyle, who had made a pretense of resuming his letter-writing, noticed it, and felt uncomfortable. “And--say, McWayne,” pursued the reporter, “could you let a fellow have a photograph or two? You know we've got some, but we'd prefer to publish those you think the family consider the best. Some people are queer that way.” McWayne shook his head and went away, convinced of the worst. He returned and beckoned to the reporter, who thereupon said, sharply, to Doyle: “Open the door--you! Quick!” And Doyle, who saw McWayne beckoning, had to do it. Four hundred and seventeen reporters were avenged! Doyle was so angry that he was full of aches. He was tempted to throw up his job. Then he hoped E. H. Merriwether, who was a very great man, would order him to throw the insolent dog out of the office. Doyle would earn a bonus. E. H. Merriwether, autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of railroad, fearless fighter, iron-nerved stock gambler, but, alas! also a father, was seated at his desk. He turned to the reporter the inscrutable poker-face of his class: “You wished to see me?” “Yes, sir,” said the reporter, and waited; two could play at that game. The great financier was compelled to ask: “About what?” “About what McWayne told you.” The reporter spoke unemotionally. “About some rumor concerning my son?” “No, sir.” “No?” E. H. Merriwether looked surprised. “No. I wished to know what statement you desire to make about your son's engagement and marriage. If you do not care to say anything we shall not publish any fake interview, no matter what opinion I personally may form as to the real state of your feelings.” “I take it you are from one of the yellow papers, young man?” E. H. Merriwether spoke coldly; but, within, his heart-tragedy was being enacted. “You usually take what you wish if it isn't nailed down, I have heard; but that, doubtless, is one of the slanders that automatically grow up about a great man, sir,” said the reporter, without the shadow of a smile or frown. “If I am mistaken about the newspaper you represent--” Here Mr. Merriwether paused, as if to allow the young man to introduce himself; but the young man said: