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“I do the etiquette page, Mr. Gowler,” said Saunders Rook, gently.

“Yes, yes. I meant that; why, of course,” said Mr. Gowler, hastily. He decapitated a cigar and faced Saunders Rook. “Look here, Rook,” he said, “I’m afraid we’ve been hiding your light under a bushel around here. To be frank with you, I didn’t realize the stuff you were made of—until a few days ago.” Mr. Gowler paused significantly.

“Now, what this magazine needs,” he went on, “is a live young man of forceful character, who has modern ideas and isn’t afraid to back them up. Roscoe Quimper is getting old; been an editor too long; we need a man with spirit for his position. Will you take it?”

Saunders Rook moistened dry lips; speech failed him; it was a post he had long coveted. He affected to consider.

“It pays fifteen thousand,” said Mr. Gowler. His tone was actually persuasive.

Saunders Rook thought swiftly.

“I’ll take charge, Mr. Gowler.”

“Good!” cried Mr. Gowler. “Good!”

“Until the Fourth of July,” added Saunders Rook.