On the day set for the beginning of Roger Wynrod's business career, Good introduced him to the more important members of the staff, all of whom expressed their profound pleasure at making his acquaintance, and without further conversation departed to more pressing duties. Their indifference rather nettled him, but he consoled himself by ascribing it to the high pressure under which newspaper offices notoriously laboured. He was quite mollified, however, when he reached the door of the office he was to occupy, and found his name prominently engrossed upon it in letters of gilt. He was also much pleased with the furniture, particularly the desk, a tremendous affair of mahogany, filled with all manner of alluring receptacles. The office, he was gratified to note, while not large, appeared more or less private.

"Now then," said Good, "here's your shop. Get to work. I'll be around the building somewhere if you need me."

Jenkins, the Business Manager, had suggested, rather diffidently, that a good way to begin to work would be to acquire familiarity with the files of the paper. So, after making a cursory examination of his more material surroundings, he attacked the huge volumes which he found on his table, containing, he was sure, copies of The Dispatch for at least a century back.

He pursued the task diligently enough, at first, but it was not long before his interest flagged. One issue seemed painfully like another. It was very quiet in the little room, and as he sat wearily fingering the dusty sheets he felt curiously isolated and futile. The conviction gradually settled upon him that business was hardly as entertaining as it had been described. By eleven o'clock his patience was exhausted. With a word or two, more vigorous than elegant, he swept the bulky tomes upon the floor, and went in search of Jenkins.

The Business Manager ran his hand through his hair helplessly when Roger stated his grievance.

"I've been awful busy, Mr. Wynrod," he said apologetically. "If you'll only be patient. Just a day or two—rushed to death just now, don't you know."

"In a day or two?" cried Roger. "Good Lord, man—two hours have been too much for me. Something's simply got to happen or I'll go nutty!"

Jenkins laughed, though not very mirthfully. Inwardly he was a seething cauldron of wrath at the fate which had afflicted him with so useless an appendage as Mr. Wynrod. He had been harassed enough by the change in ownership, without that.

But fate has a queer way of settling knotty problems very suddenly and very surprisingly. As Jenkins laughed and cursed behind the laugh, a boy put a card on his desk.

"Maybe Good ... he might have something ..." he said to Roger abstractedly, as he picked up the card. "Ask Mr. Good to step down here," he called after the retreating boy. "Awful rush these days," he murmured.

Suddenly his whole manner and expression changed completely. His resigned annoyance was transformed into patent excitement. He fingered the card nervously for a moment. Then he looked up at Roger, his brows knitted.

"Would you mind excusing me for just a moment, Mr. Wynrod? There's a gentleman here to see me ... very important...."

Roger resisted an impulse to ask who the gentleman might be who had created such manifest consternation, and turned to leave. But as he put his hand to the door, it opened, and Good entered.

"Hello," said the tall man, "making trouble around here already? What's the...?"

Before he could finish, Jenkins had him by the arm and was drawing him toward the window, whispering excitedly. Roger was as effectually excluded from the conversation as if he had not existed. As he watched the animated gestures of the Business Manager the strange thought struck him that he himself was the subject of the conference. His suspicions were confirmed when Good whistled softly, and, turning suddenly, intimated, in a voice more authoritative than apologetic, that his prompt withdrawal would be appreciated. Roger, deeply offended, was about to comply, when the door opened again, and a man stood on the threshold, twirling his mustache. Jenkins rushed forward to greet him.

"Oh, Mr. Faxon," he cried, "how are you? Glad to see you. Sit down, won't you? I ..."

Faxon ignored the proffered chair. "Hello, Roger," he said abruptly, "the boy said you were here. Thought I'd butt in."

"Hello, Joe," said Roger, striving to understand the tense atmosphere which seemed to pervade the room. "I'm just bound for my office. Come on up." He noticed with surprise that Jenkins frowned and shook his head savagely at the invitation. "Come on, Joe," he repeated, resentful at Jenkins' behaviour.

But as he put his hand on the doorknob, Good rushed into the breach. "One moment, if you please, Mr. Faxon," he said smoothly. "Mr. Wynrod is hardly familiar enough yet with things here to be of use to you in—er—matters of business."

Faxon wheeled sharply and stared as if he had not before realised the tall man's presence. "You'll doubtless leave that to me to discover, won't you?" he inquired with studied insolence. Abruptly he turned again to Roger. "Now then, may I see you—alone?"

Roger's eyes wandered from one to the other helplessly. But before he could speak, Good came to the fore again. His jaw was set firmly and his eyes were cold.

"See here, Mr. Faxon," he said, with characteristic disdain of subtlety, "let's not mince matters. Jenkins and I know perfectly well what you're here for. Wynrod doesn't. I'd suggest that we talk things over together."

"Thanks awfully for the advice," snapped Faxon sarcastically. "But I'm not here to see you or Mr. Jenkins. I'm here to see Mr. Wynrod. And I'm here to see him privately—you hear—privately. If such a visit is not contrary to the rules of the office, or if Mr. Wynrod is allowed to decide such matters for himself...."

Good had kept his gaze fastened on Roger as Faxon spoke, and the flood of colour in the young man's face at the latter's innuendo, had not been lost on him. "You need say no more, Mr. Faxon," he interrupted suddenly. Then he turned to Roger. "Wynrod," he said slowly, as if measuring his words, "you know, I believe, who's boss of this paper. Act accordingly." With a low bow to Faxon and a nod to Jenkins, who followed him, he left the room.

"If you know who's boss," said Faxon with a sneer as the door closed, "they apparently don't."

"Appearances are frequently deceiving," said Roger shortly.

"I hope so," snapped Faxon, his face hardening, as he drew a folded newspaper from his pocket and threw it on the desk. "Now then, my boy, I'd like to know the meaning of this?"

"Of what?" asked Roger quietly.

"Oh, don't stall."

"I'm not stalling."

"You mean to say you don't know?" demanded Faxon with honest astonishment.

"You haven't seen fit as yet to tell me."

"This sentimental poppycock you've been running in The Dispatch about our strike."

"And what about it?"

Faxon's manner changed and he smiled indulgently.

"You haven't been in business very long, Roger. There are some things you don't understand very clearly."

"Very probably."

"But there are some things, my boy, so elementary that a child could understand them."

"In other words," said Roger coldly, "even I."

"Yes," snapped Faxon brutally, "even you."

"Well, go on."

"In the paper this morning there is a mess of stuff, probably cooked up by that damn fool, Good, taking the side of those girls against us. Now what I want to know is the meaning of it."

"The meaning?"

"Yes. Are you on our side or on theirs?"

"My dear Faxon," said Roger, "you have already told me how little I know about such things. How can you expect me to answer such a question as that? Mr. Good has my sister's confidence and mine. If he ran this article, I believe it to be a good article. And anyway, who the hell are you to come here asking me questions like that?" The young man's temper had suddenly ignited. His face paled and his lips became set in a thin straight line.

Faxon raised his hand. "Now don't get sore, Roger," he said more affably. "I simply want to come to an understanding with you, so we know where each other stands, that's all. Were these articles printed with your sanction or not?" he asked slowly, tapping on the desk with his pencil.

"I wasn't consulted," said Roger simply; "that's not my business."

"Well, damn it," roared Faxon, losing his temper, "it ought to be your business! Isn't it your business to prevent a lot of crack-brained idiots from making a fool out of you?"

"I don't see that they are."

"Well, everybody else sees it. Now look here, Roger. We'll overlook it this time because it wasn't done with your knowledge or consent and you naturally don't understand matters very clearly yet. But it can't happen again, you hear. We won't stand for it."

"And who is supposed to be talking?" asked Roger mildly.

"Who's talking? I'm talking! And I'm a vice-president of Corey & Company. That's who's talking."

Roger shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette. "Honestly, Joe, I don't get you at all. What's all the fuss about anyway?"

"Good God, man," cried Faxon in exasperation. He drew a long breath, and, drawing his chair up closer to Roger's, began an elementary explanation of certain business relationships.

In the meanwhile Bassett and Jenkins and Good sat staring moodily at one another.

"It's a shame!" exclaimed Bassett, savagely chewing on his unlighted cigar. "He'll twist that kid around his finger. He'll pull the wool over his eyes forty different ways."

"Faxon's a clever fellow," mused Jenkins mournfully.

Good filled his pipe and lighted it. He smoked in silence for a little while.

"The Lord's got to be trusted some time," he sighed finally; "I suppose it might just as well be now—but a little more priming would have helped. Just a little more."

"Oh, the kid will knuckle under, that's certain," snarled Bassett. "There's no doubt of that. This whole proposition is doomed to failure. It's too good to be true, altogether too good. I tell you, Good, you're asking too much of these people. You're trying to make water rise higher than its source. You're trying to make them prove superior to their whole history, their environment, their friends, everything they've got."

"People prove superior to those things every day," said Good mildly.

"Not when they have to pay as big a price as you're asking."

"Don't you know there are people who have to be made to pay a big price before they think a thing's worth anything?"

Bassett snorted and bit his cigar clear through. "You're the damnedest, most idiotic optimist I ever hope to see!" he cried. Then they all laughed cheerlessly and relapsed into their moody, waiting silence.

At that very moment, in Jenkins' private office, Roger Wynrod leaned back in his chair and lit another cigarette. He puffed thoughtfully for a moment or two without speaking.

"See if I've got this straight, Joe," he said finally. "As I understand your proposition, it's this: As long as we lie down and play good dog, we're a good advertising medium. When we get up and bark at something we think ought to be barked at, then we're a bad advertising medium."

"That's one way of expressing it, Roger," laughed Faxon.

Suddenly the young man's quiet, thoughtful demeanour changed. He leaned forward and his jaw hardened. "In other words, when you spend money in advertising with us it's merely a figure of speech. Your advertising appropriation is a sort of slush fund. It's the price you pay for keeping us silent on things you want kept silent. Is that straight?"

"I wouldn't put it just that way. But ..."

"Well, then, suppose,—just suppose, mind you,—suppose we continue on the line of thought expressed in this article that irritated you people so much this morning, what then?"

Faxon leaned forward and his fist came down on the desk with a smash. "Wynrod," he said sharply, "Corey & Company has less than six thousand lines of its contract with The Dispatch remaining. If you continue to attack us in this way, I can inform you that that contract will not be renewed."

"I see," said Roger quietly.

"Furthermore," added Faxon in the same hard tone, "the contract you now hold with Brooks, Carpenter, Weinstein, LeVigne and all the other members of the department store association, will not be renewed as they expire."

"I see. And if orders are given not to run anything more along this line, what then?"

Faxon smiled. "In that case I can inform you that the pleasant relations that have hitherto existed between The Dispatch and the large stores of this city, will continue as before."

"You tempt me, Joe," said Wynrod in what was little more than a whisper, but with an inscrutable look in his eyes. Then he turned and walked to the window. A faint smile of triumph flitted over Faxon's features as he watched the young man's back. Suddenly Wynrod turned around. "Joe," he said, very calmly but very firmly, "you've been frank with me, and now I'll be the same with you. There are at least half a dozen reasons why I would like to tell you to go to hell, but there's only one necessary. If there was anything needed to stiffen my backbone, it's supplied by the fact that you can come here attempting to give me orders. That won't go, Joe. You came here this morning and insisted on seeing me because you thought you could bully me. That's why you wouldn't talk to Jenkins or Good. But you haven't sized me up right, Joe, and you'd better run back to Corey just as fast as you can and tell him so."

The triumphant smile faded from Faxon's face and it slowly reddened. "That means ..."

"Anything you choose to make it," said Roger quietly.

Unexpectedly Faxon changed his tactics. With a friendly smile he jumped to his feet. "I say, Roger, you don't understand what you're saying. There's no threatening about it. This is just a plain business talk, pure and simple. We're friends. What's the use of getting up on your ear and talking like that? Do you realise what it'll mean to your paper? You can't afford to do it. I'm not talking to you, personally, you understand. I'm talking to you as a disinterested outsider. I'm giving you a straight tip. I'm trying to save you from making a fool of yourself, don't you understand?"

"I understand perfectly," said Roger. "There's nothing to be said further, is there?"

"Come now," insisted Faxon. "Don't be a clam, Roger. Let's discuss this thing quietly and get to the bottom of it."

"I have nothing further to say," said Roger coldly. "Have you?"

Faxon looked at him helplessly for a moment and when he saw the determination plainly evident in the young man's face and realised that there was no further purpose in discussion, he took his hat. "You're a fine young demigod now, Roger," he sneered. "But wait. Bigger men than you have tried this game before. They've broken—every one of them."

Faxon paused in the doorway as if he would say more, but Roger had already turned his back upon him. With an oath he slammed the door.

"I wonder what he takes me for," murmured Roger. "Thinks I'm a child does he ... got another think, I guess." Then he went in search of Good and Jenkins.

His sense of isolation and futility seemed to have deserted him utterly. For the first time in his life he felt himself at grips with a man's reality. Disdaining the elevator he skipped up the stairs to Bassett's office with his heart full of a curious exaltation such as he had never experienced before. Like a boy, but feeling very much a man, he burst into the editor's office.

"Good Lord," he cried, as he saw their sombre countenances, "who's dead?"

"Well, what happened?" asked Jenkins perfunctorily, as if he knew the answer already.

"Oh, we fixed things up beautifully," said Roger, lightly.

"Of course," muttered Bassett under his breath, "I knew you would."

Though Good did not speak, the question was in his expression. Roger saw it, and a light came into his eyes which none of them had ever seen there before.

"I hope you've got some more of that stuff on the girls for to-morrow," he said quietly. "Go after 'em strong."

Then, while the others sat thunderstruck, he drew a cigarette from his case and lighted it, deliberately.

"I say, you know," he said between puffs, "business is the—greatest—game—in the world."

"I say, you know," he said, between puffs, "business is the—greatest—game—in the world."