"You're practically a new man, then." The editor thought for a moment, and David eagerly watched his face. It was business-like, but kindly. "Why, I guess I might take the trouble to lick a man into shape--if he seemed to have the right stuff in him. Anyhow, I might give you a trial. But you're not very young to be just beginning the game. What've you been working at?" David felt the guilty colour warming his cheeks. "Writing." "All the time?" He tried to speak naturally. "The last few years I have been trying to do some--manual work." "Here in the city?" "No. Out of town." The editor could not but notice David's flushed face and its strained look. He eyed David narrowly, and his brow wrinkled in thought. David strove to force a natural look upon his face. "Aldrich," the editor said to himself, "Aldrich--David Aldrich you said. That sounds familiar. Where have I heard that in the last few days?" "I don't know," said David, his lips dry; but he thought of a paragraph he had read on the ride from prison announcing his discharge. "O-o-h!" said the editor, and his eyes sharpened. David understood. The editor had also remembered the paragraph. The editor's gaze dropped to his desk, as though embarrassed. "I'm very sorry--but I'm afraid I can't use you after all. I really don't need any men. But I hope you'll find something without trouble." The blow was gently delivered, but it was still a blow--one that, as he walked dazedly from the office, made his courage totter. He told himself that he had counted upon just such experiences as this, that he had planned for a month of rebuffs--and gradually, as the evening wore away, he preached spirit back into himself. However, he would make no further attempts to find newspaper work. Even should he be so lucky as to secure a place, some one of the score or two score fellow-workers would be certain to connect him with the newly-liberated convict, as the editor had done, and then--discharge. For the present, it would be better to seek a position among the large business houses. At dawn the next morning David was reading the "Help Wanted" columns of a newspaper, and two hours later he was sitting in the office of the superintendent of the shipping department of a wholesale dress-goods house that had advertised for a shipping clerk. The superintendent scrutinised David's face, making David feel that the prison mark was appearing, like an image on a developing plate, and then demanded: "Why do you want a job like this? This ain't your class." "Because I need it." "Had any experience as a shipping clerk?" "No. But I'm mighty willing to learn." "Well, let's see your letters from previous employers." David hesitated. "I have none." He felt the red proclamation of his record begin to burn in his cheeks. "Have none!" The superintendent looked suspicious. "No references at all?" David shook his head; his cheeks flamed redder. "Who've you worked for?"