"I have carefully and conscientiously rejected all contributions from that section of the country - if I understand your figurative language aright," replied the colonel.

    "All right. Now I'll show you something."

    Thacker reached for his thick manila envelope and dumped a mass of typewritten manuscript on the editors desk.

    "Here's some truck," said he, "that I paid cash for, and brought along with me."

    One by one he folded back the manuscripts and showed their first pages to the colonel.

    Here are four short stories by four of the highest priced authors in the United States - three of 'em living in New York, and one commuting. There's a special article on Vienna-bred society by Tom Vampson. Here's an Italian serial by Captain Jack - no - it's the other Crawford. Here are three separate exposés of city governments by Sniffings, and here's a dandy entitled 'What Women Carry in Dress-Suit Cases' - a Chicago newspaper woman hired herself out for five years as a lady's maid to get that information. And here's a Synopsis of Preceding Chapters of Hall Caine's new serial to appear next June. And here's a couple of pounds of vers de société that I got at a rate from the clever magazines. That's the stuff that people everywhere want. And now here's a write-up with photographs at the ages of four, twelve, twenty-two, and thirty of George B. McClellan. It's a prognostication. He's bound to be elected Mayor of New York. It'll make a big hit all over the country. He - "

    "I beg your pardon," said Colonel Telfair, stiffening in his chair. "What was the name?"

    "Oh, I see," said Thacker, with half a grin. Yes, he's a son of the General. We'll pass that manuscript up. But, if you'll excuse me, Colonel, it's a magazine we're trying to make go off - not the first gun at Fort Sumter. Now, here's a thing that's bound to get next to you. It's an original poem by James Whitcomb Riley.