“If I told you the name of the newspaper that honors itself by playing fair with you, I suspect you would set in motion the machinery that you--er--men of large affairs use to suppress news. You couldn't reach my city editor, who is a poor man with a family of eight, or the reporter, who is penniless; but you could reach the owner, who is a millionaire. This is my first big story in New York and it will make me professionally. It means a lot to me!” “About how much does it mean to you, young man?” asked E. H. Merriwether, with a particularly polite curiosity. “Speaking in language that should be intelligible to you and using the terms by which you measure' all things down here--” He paused, and then said, bluntly, “You mean in cash, don't you?” “Yes.” “Well, I should say, Mr. Merriwether, that this story is worth to me--Let me see!” And he began to count on his fingers, like a woman. This habit inexpressibly angers men who find no trouble in remembering numbers of dollars. “I should say, Mr. Merriwether, that it is worth about three thousand two hundred and eighty-six--millions of dollars. If I am to stop being a decent newspaper man to become a blackmailer and general damned fool I'd want to make enough to endow all my pet charities and carry out a series of rather expensive experiments in philanthropy.” “But--” began the magnate. “No, sir,” interrupted the reporter, “no money, please. Just assume that I am a damned fool and, therefore, refuse to consider a bribe.” “I have not bribed you,” suggested E. H. Merriwether, calmly. His eyes never left the reporter's face. “Then I misjudged you, and I apologize abjectly; but permit me to continue to be an ass and blind to money. What about Thomas Thorne Merriwether, only son and heir of the railroad king of the Southwest?” “Well, what about him?” The face of E. H. Merriwether showed only what you might call a perfunctory curiosity. The reporter looked at him admiringly. After a pause, he asked: “Do you know her?” “Do you?” “Then you don't!” exclaimed the reporter, triumphantly. “This is better than I had hoped.” “Better?” “Certainly; it means a better introductory article. The first of the series will be: 'To whom is Tom Merriwether engaged?' Think of it, sir,” he said, with the enthusiasm of the true artist, “the heir of the Merriwether millions! By the way, could you tell offhand how many millions I might safely say?” Whatever Mr. Merriwether may have thought, he merely said, with the cold finality that often imposes on young reporters: “Young man, if you begin your career by being vulgar your ruin will be of your own doing.” “My dear sir, vulgarity never ruined any career. All the great men of history were at the beginning accused of hopeless vulgarity--by those on whom they trod. I tell you it is not vulgarity that prompts me, but mastery of the technic of my trade. Do you care to have me tell you about my article?”