"Sorry to dash your hopes—always ready to pour another drink. But—there are no vacancies here. No, sir. Two of us are plenty and running over, eh, Bill?"
"Plenty and running over," agreed the city editor warmly.
Into their boots tumbled the hearts of the two strangers in a strange land. Gloom and hunger engulfed them. But the managing editor of the Mail was continuing—and what was this he was saying?
"No, boys—we don't need a staff. Have just as much use for a manicure set. But—you come at an opportune time. Wanderlust—it tickles the soles of four feet to-night, and those four feet are editorial feet on the Mail. Something tells us that we are going away from here. Boys—how would you like our jobs?"
He stared placidly at the two strangers. O'Neill put one hand to his head.
"See me safely to my park bench, Harry," he said. "It was that drink on an empty stomach. I'm all in a daze. I hear strange things."
