The editor threw off his eye-shade, revealing a cynical face.
"Boys," he said, "I thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I've been running this alleged newspaper for two long dreary years, and this laugh you've just handed me is the first I've had during that time. Vacancies! There is one—a big one. See my pocket for particulars. Two years, boys. And all the time hoping—praying—that some day I'd make two dollars and sixty cents, which is the railroad fare to the next town."
Howe and O'Neill listened with faces that steadily grew more sorrowful.
"I'd like to stake you to a meal," the editor went on. "But a man's first duty is to his family. Any burglar will tell you that."
"I suppose," ventured O'Neill, most of the flash gone from his manner, "there is no other newspaper here?"
"No, there isn't. There's a weird thing here called the San Marco Mail—a morning outrage. It's making money, but by different methods than I'd care to use. You might try there. You look unlucky. Perhaps they'd take you on."
