A dark-faced young man arose to meet him outside. Tired--that was the word that bored into Cobden’s mind with new meaning. There was something potent in the weariness of the black eyes, a deadly sort of patience that rarely goes with brilliance. Dicky was slightly above medium height. The other’s eyes were level with his own. The hanging sock was not in evidence, but Dicky felt that the stranger didn’t dare to move fast, for fear his clothes would break. “Yet he feels clean,” he thought, “yet he feels clean.” This was important enough to repeat. “I have a story----” “Your name?” “It is Naidu--but not known.” “Are you from India?” “Yes.” “Why not let us have your story to read?” “It must be read now.” “This sort of thing isn’t done while one waits, you know.” “I’m afraid this one will have to be done so.” “Why, even if it’s promising,” Dicky declared severely, “it would have to be read several times.” “I’ll wait.” “But we have hundreds----” “I know--may I not see the chief editor?” Mr. Naidu turned slowly back to the bench, as if to resume his seat. “You win,” Dicky slowly said. “I’ll take the story and read it now, though I’m only a deck hand. If it looks good enough, I’ll try to get Mr. Higgins to look----” Five minutes after that, Dicky was deep in South Africa. Six thousand words in neat but faded typing, called _The Little Man_, about a diminutive Hindu person who appeared to have no other business in life but to stand up for the under dog. This person would fight anything, but the British Government was about the size of a foe he liked best--a cheerful story of most shocking suffering, which the Little Man took upon himself for the natives of Natal--no, not the natives, but for the Hindu laborers who had come to Africa to settle. A clear, burning patience through the pages; everything was carried in solution--all one breath, sustained. It wasn’t writing. It was living. It slid on with a soft inevitable rhythm, and it took Dicky along. More than this, he saw in the story--or in the great stillness which the story brought him--something of the sort of thing he meant to write some day. Nothing exactly like this, of course, but the achievement of this unfettered ease. It made him want to start out at once to find the Little Man. It made him hear from Africa something like a personal call. He let himself dream for a moment. Wouldn’t it be great, his mind-made picture ran, when he had done a real story of his own--wouldn’t it be great to deliver it like this (or perhaps sockless) and make it sell itself? Halfway through, he arose and dumped the sheets he had read before Higgins’ spectacles, saying with slow-measured calm: “She breathes. She’s a leaping trout!” “Get out,” said Higgins softly. “That’s only half,” said Cobden. “Where’s the rest?” “I’ve got it in there--not read yet.” “And you bring this to me?” “He’s waiting. This story will finish itself. I know it will march straight.”