Denis Quirk was a man of courage and energy. He had an almost heroic disregard of public opinion; if those few whom he loved would give him their faith, the rest of the world might praise or condemn him at will. Had it not been that the future of "The Mercury" was imperilled by his presence, and that Dr. Marsh was interested in the success of the paper, he would have remained at Grey Town to fight on until the tide had turned or want of funds compelled him to close down. As it was, he sold his share to his father for no more than he had originally invested in the paper, and went to Melbourne to start a weekly magazine, "The Freelance."

In this undertaking, he was able to ensure success by his own ability and, perhaps to a still greater degree, by the assistance of Jackson and O'Connor, who were at that time the leading advertising firm in Melbourne.

Prior to giving him support, Jackson stepped into Desmond O'Connor's room to debate Denis Quirk's credentials with his junior.

"See here, Desmond," he said, "you know more about Quirk than I. We were together on "The Golden Eagle" at Fenton before he went to America, and we have continued friends right down to to-day, but his ability is an unknown quantity to me."

Desmond O'Connor heard this remark with considerable interest.

"Do you also know Gerard?" he asked.

"Never heard the name."

"Then I have to thank Denis Quirk for your interest in me?"

Jackson had forgotten Denis Quirk's letter, with its request to keep the latter's name a secret from Desmond. He answered readily:

"Partly Quirk; but largely yourself. Quirk sent me to you and I liked you. That was my reason for helping you in the beginning; later on you helped yourself."

"I have done Quirk an injustice, and now I can help him. Well he deserves it. Quirk is a born journalist. He understands the public as no other man does, and knows what to say to them and how to say it. This paper of his is a certain success."

"Then we will support him. Put the 'Freelance's' name down for a regular column of advertisement," said Jackson.

"I will slip round and see Quirk," suggested Desmond.

Denis Quirk was in his office, busy in putting his ideas into effect with a piece of foolscap in front of him, and the telephone receiver close at hand.

"Jackson and O'Connor re advertisement," he read on his list.

"I may as well try them; probably they will say: 'Prove yourself, and we will support you.'"

He rang the bell, and had the receiver at his ear, when Desmond entered.

"It is all right, Exchange," he cried. "I will ring up again. Hullo, O'Connor! Glad to see you. I was just ringing the office up. Take a seat."

Desmond sat down.

"Quirk," he said; "I owe you a good deal."

"That old chatterbox, Jackson! Has he been bleating?" Denis asked.

"Inadvertently he opened the bag, and out jumped the cat. You are a little bit old-fashioned, Quirk. If every man hid his virtues as you do, Jackson and O'Connor would be forced to close down. I have been crediting Gerard with your balance in my gratitude ledger."

"Gerard!" cried Denis. "What made you select him?"

"He professed so much. If I had all Gerard promised me I would be a multi-millionaire. But I am not ungrateful. Jackson and I can help you a little; count on us!"

"Thanks, Desmond. At present you are invaluable to me, as much because of the weight you carry with the public as for the £ s. d. I don't think you are making a mistake because I intend to succeed, and I haven't drawn a blank yet."

"Oh, you'll succeed, Quirk; that's a foregone conclusion.... Are you looking for rooms?" Desmond asked.

"At present I am staying at the 'Exchange,' but there's no privacy there. Do you know of a quiet, respectable place?"

"I can offer you a share in my flat in Collins Street," said Desmond. "I have the best man in Melbourne, miles ahead of any woman ever born; a self-respecting fellow, who expects good wages and earns them. He keeps the flat in A1 order, cooks well enough to content even you——."

"Hang it! I am not a gourmand," Denis Quirk interjected.

"I am not accusing you of gluttony, my friend! I know from experience you like your work well done, even if it happens to be the preparation of an omelette on a Friday. I suppose you still hold to your old prejudice against meat on a Friday?" asked Denis with a smile.

"Undoubtedly! Not from any objection to meat, but as a mark of loyalty and obedience," Denis replied.

"I avoid it myself; merely from a health point of view. I have thrown the old traditions and superstitions to the winds. I am a free man," said Desmond.

"Do you wear a hat in the street?" Denis asked laughingly; "and a coat; or have you descended to the habits of your ancestors and eschewed clothes on a hot day?"

"No, my good man, and for an excellent reason. I have no desire to run counter to the law," replied Desmond.

"Precisely my reason for abstinence on Friday; but my law is a moral one, and my justice of the peace that stern fellow, conscience. Don't talk to me of traditions and superstitions. You, free men, are more bound by superstitions than we who profess to be servants to a kindly mistress.... I will share your flat and your wonderful man; and give you the benefit of my beauty and my intelligent conversation on one condition. We will swear a truce of God, neither shall run atilt at the other's convictions until he is invited to do so. Is it an understanding?" said Denis.

"Agreed! Go your own way and leave me in peace," said Desmond.

Thus did it come about that these two men shared the same flat and lived on a hearty brotherly footing, although their views were diametrically opposed. Around them they gathered a Bohemian band of companions, of all creeds and every condition of life. Lawyers, doctors, actors, journalists, and politicians; if they were decent, straight-living men, with something to give in thought for that which they received, the Bachelors' flat in Collins Street, as it was termed, was open to them all. Denis Quirk lived strenuously as was his way, making "The Freelance" a power in the land. He set himself to found a school of journalists who wrote for the love of truth and scorned the mean and paltry things of life. As with "The Mercury," Denis Quirk made his new organ a censor of all that is contemptible.

Desmond O'Connor, for his part, lived the parti-coloured life of other men, business and pleasure in equal portions. Occasionally he assisted Quirk with a black and white sketch for "The Freelance." He still retained his old power as an artist, and Denis Quirk turned to him in preference to the regular staff when he desired a particularly striking sketch.

"Just sit down, Desmond, and illustrate this article. The initials, D. O'C., are always appreciated," he would say.

"So I have every reason to believe. I am a genius and I know it. But anything, even undesired artistic fame, to oblige you," Desmond would answer.

He had a heartfelt admiration for Denis Quirk, whose fate it was to win the love or hate of those who knew him. None who came in contact with him failed to appreciate the strength of his personality, and he threw himself resolutely on the side of truth. Those who lived on injustice and untruth would willingly have destroyed him because he exposed them relentlessly to public odium; the honest and straightforward placed him on a pedestal as a just man. "Good old Quirk" was a synonym for strength and uprightness of life in those days.