“Nothing the matter with him, Miss, but just plain drunk,” the man said with a grin. “He's been sleeping it off.” Jeff felt the quiver run through her. She rose, trembling, and with one frightened sidelong look at him walked quickly away. He had seen a wound in her eyes he would not soon forget. It was as if he had struck her down while she was holding out hands to help him. CHAPTER 5 Lies need only age to make them respectable. Given that, they become traditions and are put upon a pedestal. Then the gentlest word for him who attacks them is traitor.--From the Note Book of a Dreamer. THE REBEL FOLLOWS THE RAMIFICATIONS OF BIG BUSINESS AND FINDS THAT THE PILLARS OF SOCIETY ARE NOT IN POLITICS FOR THEIR HEALTH Part 1 “Hmp! Want to be a reporter, do you?” Warren, city editor on the Advocate, leaned back in his chair and looked Jeff over sharply. “Yes.” “It's a hell of a life. Better keep out.” “I'd like to try it.” “Any experience?” “Only correspondence. I've had two years at college.” The city editor snorted. He had the unreasoning contempt for college men so often found in the old-time newspaper hack. “Then you don't want to be a reporter. You want to be a journalist,” he jeered. “They kicked me out,” Jeff went on quietly. “Sounds better. Why?” Jeff hesitated. “I got drunk.” “Can't use you,” Warren cut in hastily. “I've quit--sworn off.” The city editor was back on the job, his eyes devouring copy. “Heard that before. Nothing to it,” he grunted. “Give me a trial. I'll show you.” “Don't want a man that drinks. Office crowded with 'em already.” Jeff held his ground. For five minutes the attention of Warren was focused on his work. Suddenly he snapped out, “Well?” He met Farnum's ingratiating smile. “You haven't told me yet what to start doing.” “I told you I didn't want you.” “But you do. I'm on the wagon.” “For how long?” jeered the city editor. “For good.” Warren sized him up again. He saw a cleareyed young fellow without a superfluous ounce of flesh on him, not rugged but with a look of strength in the slender figure and the thin face. This young man somehow inspired confidence. “Sent in that Colby story to us, didn't you?” “Yes.” “Rotten story. Not half played up. Report to Jenkins at the City Hall.” “Now?” “Now. Think I meant next year?” The city editor was already lost in the reading of more copy. Inside of half an hour Jeff was at work on his first assignment. Some derelict had committed suicide under the very shadow of the City Hall. Upon the body was a note scrawled on the bask of a dirty envelope. Sick and out of work. Notify Henry Simmons, 237 River Street, San Francisco. Jenkins, his hands in his pockets, looked at the body indifferently and turned the story over to the cub with a nod of his head. “Go to it. Half a stick,” he said.