JUST when everybody on The Banner was ready to mark down Thomas Weatherill Mills as a newspaper failure, he was appointed Jersey City reporter.

      The first day he came back with a note book full of unimportant items and a look of unutterable woe in his soft blue eyes.

      "Well, Tommy," exclaimed Rackingham, the city editor; "how did you make out?"

      "Oh, I made out all right," replied Tommy with an unreal smile.

      Rackingham detected the subterfuge behind the smile. "I want the truth," he said sharply.

      Tommy was brief and to the point. "The other Jersey City reporters have formed a combination against me," he blurted out. "I'm a boycotted man."

      "Why?" came the amazed query.

      "Oh, it's not personal," said the cub reporter, his voice rising to a shrill pitch. "It's you. They are sour because you fired Jenkins, and swear by all that's holy that I can't do the work."

      "Well, you shall," shouted Rackingham in rasping tones; and then threateningly: "If you don't size up to the job, I'll put another man on it; and, if he fails, I'll assign another. I'm running this shanty and I'll be boss or bust. Now you go ahead; wake up and make a name for yourself."

      Tommy ground out his column of matter, and did wake up — in the morning, to discover that the conspirators had beaten him to death. For four consecutive days The Banner was scooped — scooped with painful and precise regularity. Tommy was unused to responsibilities, and the thing worried him. One day The Banner failed to get an elopement; the next morning it was the only paper that missed a big breach of promise suit; and the other two days it was a suicide, and an embezzlement. The usual smile had left Rackingham's face and was replaced by a nasty frown. He said nothing, but his silence was ominous. Things were looking decidedly blue for Thomas Weatherill Mills.

      On the evening of the fifth day he went down in the elevator with Long, the veteran of The Banner staff. Long looked at him with a pitying smile. Then he put his arms around the cub's shoulders.

      "Say, Tommy, you've got to redeem yourself with a big story of some kind."

      "How am I going to get it?" asked Tommy, in a helpless sort of way. "It's a case of six to one. Those fellows can cover six times as much territory as I can; besides, they know the town and are on the inside with the police department."

      "That doesn't make any difference," retorted Long; "you must get the story. This newspaper business is more than a daily grind. It is a daily battle. When the smoke clears away in the morning there are always a lot of dead and wounded. If you are not careful you will be numbered among the dead ones."

      And Long hurried up Park Row, while Tommy, in a dazed condition, made his way across Broadway in the direction of the Jersey City ferry. Once over it was the same monotonous routine. Little scraps of news good enough for "brevities," but not a decent "story" in sight. Tommy was disconsolate and disheartened. He pictured that awful frown on Rackingham's brow, and the thought made him shiver. It was nearly midnight when he drifted into the last station house on his assignment.

      "Anything new, Sergeant?" he said with affected gayety, to the coatless individual who sat behind the railing, his feet cocked up on the desk.

      "Naw," replied the functionary, with a brevity that would have done credit to a thrifty man sending his first cable dispatch.

      Tommy mechanically looked on the "slate," which contains the record of arrests at police stations. He saw this item:

Amos Fairton, aged 47, 2296 Syntax Street, Brooklyn, N. Y., D. and D.

      "What's the trouble with Amos?" asked Tommy.

      "Found drunk down near the ferry house," said the Sergeant, trying to puff some life into the dying embers of his corn cob pipe. He added, as an afterthought:

      "He's got a little scalp wound over the eye. I've a notion to send him to the Samaritan Hospital to have it dressed."

      Tommy pulled out paper and pencil and began transcribing the item from the slate.

      The Sergeant laughed coarsely. "You do gun for small game," he said. "None of the other boys would take that; said their sheets were too big for minty drunk and disorderly cases."

      Tommy flushed at the reproach. He thought, as he walked to the ferry, that it was merited. He even considered the advisability of resigning, as a diplomatic way of heading off the inevitable dismissal. But when the boat began to churn its way to the New York shore he brightened up a bit. The movement of the craft seemed to stir his faculties. He considered how he could ward off the awful "yellow envelope" that preceded separation from The Banner. He began to think, and thinking, with Tommy Mills, was a mighty serious operation. When the boat bumped into the dock the jar brought Tommy out of his reverie. He jumped up with a cry of delight. He had come to his resolve. Passengers on that midnight boat looked with surprise at the slimly-built youth, who hurried up the gang plank humming a tune, seemingly oblivious of their presence. The elevator man at the office wondered why Tommy didn't respond to his greeting. He said nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing, but hurried with a hop, skip and a jump to the little den where Rackingham sat enthroned.

      "I've got a story," he gasped.

      Rackingham looked at him in skeptical surprise.

      "What about?" he inquired, indulgently.

      "Attempted murder at the ferry house in Jersey City," Mills said, with the rapidity of an actor who was not sure of his part.

      "Hum! Attempted murder," muttered Rackingham with the emphasis on "attempted." "Will the victim recover?"

      "He is likely to die before morning," said Tommy, casting conscience to the winds.

      "That sounds important," said Rackingham. "What was the motive for the crime?"

      Tommy looked at him helplessly. He couldn't say a word.

      "What was the motive?" repeated Rackingham, sharply.

      Tommy was too much worked up to know that he was not compelled to furnish a motive for every crime he invented.

      "Motive?" he repeated, helplessly.

      Then with the air of a man who has snatched a life preserver, he added: "Insurance; he was heavily insured. It was a conspiracy to get the insurance."

      "Now, Tommy," said Rackingham, kindly, "I want you to make a good story out of this. The other papers will have their star men on it. We must show up as well as any of them."

      "But," said Tommy reproachfully, and yet with a sinking sensation around the region of his heart, "the other papers haven't got this."

      "What do you mean?" queried Rackingham, with a puzzled glance.

      "I mean that I have the story alone," returned Tommy, with an air of triumph, slightly modified by reasonable misgivings.

      Rackingham sprang from his chair as if he had been shot out of a catapult. He was so excited that he stammered.

      "Si-si-si-sit right down here," he exclaimed, seizing Tommy by both shoulders, and thrusting him in the chair that he had vacated. "Get to work and write the story of your life. I'll see that no one disturbs you."

      And he went out and locked Tommy in the room. Tommy blinked as he gazed at his surroundings. He sat in a leather-covered mahogany chair, and the desk before him was a handsome roller-top affair. The carpet sank beneath his feet. Tommy was human and felt a sense of elation, as he contrasted himself with the local men in the adjacent room, seated, side by side, at a long, flat desk that would have disgraced a country school house. Then, as he thought of what he was about to do, the portraits of Horace Greeley, James Gordon Bennett and Henry J. Raymond that lined the wall seemed to gaze down upon him with looks of reproach.

      But these thoughts were fleeting. A first impulse to climb through the window and run away by means of a friendly fire escape, thus avoiding all of the after-consequences of the dreadful fake, was quickly banished. Tommy got down to work. He described in great detail the finding of the man in an alleyway near the ferry house, and the horror of the police when they discovered that blood was coming from an ugly wound over the forehead. His transfer to the station house; his identification by means of a card case in his vest pocket; his removal to the Samaritan Hospital at an early hour in the morning, the momentary expectation of his death, all these were graphically set forth.

      Tommy was engaged on a desperate piece of work, and he piled the agony on with a whitewash brush. He racked his brains for the details of all the celebrated murder stories he had ever read, from Gaboriau to Conan Doyle. Rackingham came in occasionally and carried off the copy, a few pages at a time, cautiously unlocking and locking the door with every visit.

      The sophistry with which Tommy had been justifying his course never really deceived him for one moment. He knew it was wrong; but, as Rackingham left the room with the last batch of pages, the question of policy loomed up before him like a great specter. He thought of the Dwellers on the Threshold — of McGinnis of The Star, who had been fired for faking a prize fight; of Matthewson, the big man of The Chronicle, who lost his position for turning in a sermon he had never heard; and of Stevens, of The Intelligencer, who had been dismissed by cable — not for an untruth, but, in a special article, for merely having trod on the corns of the English nobility.

      The thought of these specific cases sent cold fear running up and down his back in the neighborhood of the spine. But outside he heard the deep, bass voice of Rackingham shouting to the foreman of the composing room that Mills would have more copy in a few minutes; and the echo of that voice gave Tommy a hot fear that set him to writing again with the fury of one possessed.

      At a quarter to two Tommy ceased writing. He got up and rattled on the glass door, and Rackingham rushed in with the anxiety of a doctor waiting on a patient.

      "What is it?" he exclaimed, eagerly.

      "Nothing," said Tommy, "except that I am through."

      "Through!" he exclaimed, pulling his watch out; "how much have you written?"

      "Nearly two columns," replied Tommy.

      "That won't do," said Rackingham, shaking his head in protest. "We are going to delay our city edition for an hour. If we get it out now some of the other papers may try to steal a copy out of the press room, and up goes our beat in a puff of smoke. The engineer and the pressmen have instructions to set the machinery going at the usual time in order to throw our competitors off the guard. I have found some pictures of the ferry house. The artist is now making a diagram for you to mark, showing the exact spot where the body was found. In the meantime I want you to sit down and spin out another column of matter. This is going to be a big first page story, and we want to do it up brown."

      "But," said Tommy, "I'm hungry. I didn't get my lunch at midnight."

      "I'll attend to that," said Rackingham.

      In a few minutes, a caterer had brought in a tray filled with a luncheon, consisting of chicken salad, fried oysters, French rolls, coffee and some tarts. A recess of fifteen minutes to dispose of it, and Tommy started in again to write. He kept at it with a persistence and steadiness that were marvelous. His brain began to fag, and his hand felt limp; but still he wrote on. His head ached and the adjoining clocks were striking three when, from sheer exhaustion, he finally threw down his pen. At the same moment Rackingham burst into the den, seized the copy, slapped Tommy on the back with a "Bravo!" and flew up to the composing room.

      Tommy's part of the performance was over, and he sat there in a sort of stupor for ten or fifteen minutes. Putting on his coat and hat, he felt his way painfully down seven flights of stairs. He never thought of growling because the elevator had stopped running. His mind was filled with a phantasmagoria, in which ferry houses, fried oysters, Jersey City reporters and chicken salad revolved in an unending circle. When he reached the sidewalk the presses were going at a thunderous rate, and he knew his awful story was being printed on tens of thousands of sheets. Before daylight it would be on the breakfast tables and the tongues of at least a hundred thousand persons. The thought terrified him. He stood glued to the spot, gazing through the plate-glass windows at the revolving machinery. The power of the presses fascinated him. And this overwhelming force was engaged in turning out his fake. Fake! Why, it was a lie — and not a spoken lie, but a printed one. He was seized with a feverish desire to go down into the basement and tear the falsehood from the forms. He shook the mood off and, buttoning up his coat, started determinedly in the direction of his home.

      He longed for companionship, but found none. He felt that he would give up anything to meet one of the boys and talk the day's doings over with him. But Rackingham had cautioned him to keep away from his colleagues, and to avoid speaking of the great beat. He felt like a man gagged; wanted to cry out, and had an almost irrepressible desire to take every stray policeman into his confidence. Sweet sleep did not come early to Tommy that night. He tossed about and twisted the pillow into all imaginable shapes. He could not take his mind off his story. By an ingenious process of reasoning he excused himself for all he had done; and the next moment he was accusing himself of being an unmitigated blunderer. Before daylight nature had asserted itself, and Tommy was sound asleep, exploring that mysterious land which is ignorant alike of scoops, beats and fakes.

      It was high noon when he awoke; the sun was streaming through the chinks surrounding the shades on the windows. He arose with a strange feeling of unrest. For a man of abstemious habits Tommy certainly had "a head on." There were dark streaks under his eyes, and he was irritable and nervous. The feeling of remorse for his offense had entirely died out; it had been succeeded by a sort of wonderment as to the exact nature of the penalty he would have to pay. He hunted for the morning paper; when he got it he nearly swooned. He had expected something out of the ordinary, but was not prepared for the broadside that confronted him. There it was, in all the glory of black type an inch and a half deep, "The Mystery of the Ferry House." The picture of the ferry house was perfect, while the diagram of the scene where the deed was committed was the most convincing thing that Tommy had ever looked at. The more he examined that story the less desire he had to go down to the office. He would be content to be merely "fired"; but suppose the publisher should take it into his head to have him arrested on the charge of false pretense — he certainly had a good case. Unconsciously, Tommy turned to the time tables and scrutinized the list of outgoing trains. He looked into his purse and counted the extent of his money, and wondered how long it would keep him in a new city under another name. But the thought was silly. He would act the soldier, go down-town, and face the music. He had written the story of the execution of a murderer in a New Jersey prison once, and told how the desperado died bravely with a smile on his face; couldn't he show as much courage as a murderer?

      He sought refuge in the thought that Rackingham had egged him on. If he had been let alone he would have written an inoffensive little half-column "display" article that would have been printed on an inside page. He could have qualified it too, and then, if the story were denied, could have said that he had been fooled in his facts. But Rackingham thrust him into that room and compelled him to write. The story simply could not be defended. Well, then, let Rackingham take the consequences.

      But this heroic state lasted only a few minutes, and Tommy felt weak and guilty again. He ate his breakfast like a criminal, noted the fact that his two eggs were nicely cooked, that he had three slices of bread, and that he drank but one cup of coffee. What a strange, uncanny feeling there was about it all. He was sure this must be the way convicts felt before ascending the scaffold.

      But it was time to go to the office. Bracing himself, he hurried out into the street. He had not gone a block before the ghost of his story began to haunt him. The afternoon papers had their extras out. Dozens of newsboys, with lungs that pierced Tommy's ears, were yelling "All about the mystery of the ferry house." It was dreadful. It was more — it was agonizing. Every yell seemed to add another nail to his journalistic coffin. When he reached the office he found a mob of avid citizens surrounding the bulletin board and eagerly reading the news that was posted in the big bulk window. He had not the heart to look up, but squeezed through the crowd and mechanically made his way to the elevator. When he reached the local room he found it deserted. Presently Simmons, one of the staff, entered. He looked at Tommy a moment, and said:

      "Hello, you here?"

      The tone could not have been more significant, more damnatory, if he had unexpectedly found Lucretia Borgia or some other illustrious poisoner or murderer in the room. Tommy did not answer; he was reserving his strength for more powerful accusers. But Simmons was not to be cut off. He nodded his head toward the other end of the building, and pointed the forefinger of his right hand:

      "They are having an editorial council up there, and they are talking about your story."

      There was no mirror at hand, but Tommy was positive he turned white. Also he felt a sense of weakness that made him drop into the nearest chair. His eye caught sight of a stairway leading to the back of the building. He walked over in that direction with assumed carelessness; but, once out of Simmons' range of vision, he hurried down the steps two at a time.

      "Mills!" the call came short and sharp, like the report of a rifle. It was the voice of Rackingham, and it admitted of no denial. Tommy climbed slowly, laboriously, up the stairs again. He looked in the eye of his chief with the air of a man who is prepared for the worst. Rackingham seemed preoccupied. He simply said:

      "Come with me!"

      And Tommy followed him to the luxuriously appointed office of the publisher. They forgot to ask him to sit down; so he stood by a table in the center of the room, leaning on a pile of books that littered its surface. There sat the publisher, the editor-in-chief, the managing editor, the news editor and the city editor. They looked serious. Had it been a jury of twelve men about to try him, Tommy could not have been more impressed. The publisher, a well-groomed man, with snow-white hair and a white moustache, spoke first.

      "Mills," he said, not unkindly, "I believe you wrote that story on the mystery of the ferry house."

      How could he deny it? Five pairs of gleaming eyes were leveled at him from various sides of the room. It was impossible to retreat. He could not evade those glances, glistening like the polished barrels of so many muskets.

      "I-I-I believe I did," he stammered with a sickly smile.

      The trigger of one of the double-barreled muskets was pulled suddenly.

      "I know he did," declared Rackingham.

      Tommy started perceptibly, and thought that Rackingham was deserting him meanly.

      "Of course you wrote it," said the publisher, as if dismissing that phase of the subject. "But what I would like to know is, how you got such a big story in such a short time."

      "Mr. Rackingham helped me," shouted Tommy determined not to suffer alone.

      "No, I didn't," cried Rackingham, with spirit. "He did it all alone."

      Then the publisher arose and walked toward Tommy. He pulled a little slip of green paper from his pocket. Tommy, making an effort not to tremble, felt that it was a warrant for his arrest.

      "Mr. Mills," said the publisher in studied, formal tones, "The Banner has been accused of being close-fisted in the treatment of its employees. I propose to disprove that. In recognition of your enterprise and energy, I want you to accept this check for one hundred dollars."

      "A hundred dollars!" gasped Tommy in a husky voice. "For me!"

      "Yes," interjected Rackingham, "and you deserve it for that story."

      "That story!" said Tommy, still gasping for breath. "Didn't the other Jersey fellows try to deny it?"

      "Deny it!" shouted Rackingham. "I'd like to know how they could deny it." Gazing at Tommy with incredulous eyes: "Haven't you heard to-day's developments?"

      "No," said Tommy feebly, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, "I — I got up too late to-day."

      "Well, the victim died this morning at the Samaritan Hospital. The assassin has confessed, and the best part of it is that The Banner gets the credit for bringing the murderer to justice. The police had stupidly treated this as a common drunk and disorderly case; but when they read your story they got a move on them. The chief obtained an ante-mortem statement from the wounded man, made an arrest on the strength of that, and the fellow confessed; and the whole thing has been closed out in twenty-four hours."

      While Rackingham was rattling this off, the five men were gazing at Tommy with undisguised admiration.

      "There was only one weak point in your story," said the news-editor, half apologetically, "and that was about the insurance. There was no insurance. Where did you get that?"

      "I guess," remarked Tummy, who had recovered his self-possession, "I must have evolved that from my imagination."

      At that all of the men laughed heartily; and the publisher, slapping Tommy on the back, said he was entitled to his little joke on an occasion of this kind.

      "I suppose," said Tommy to Rackingham, "that those six fellows will call off their boycott now."

      "It makes little difference," was the reply. "You are through with Jersey. You are to stay on this side of the river and run out good stories."

      When Tommy recovered his self-possession and thought of what had happened he became conscience stricken. He fingered the check nervously and felt sorry for having taken it. A wave of contrition surged over him, and going up to the proprietor, he held out the little slip of paper and said in a voice that sounded unreal:

      "I — I can't take this."

      "Why not?" was the astonished query.

      "Because I didn't earn it."

      Everybody in the room — except Tommy — laughed at this. Rackingham in an undertone said to the managing editor that the extreme modesty of some men was more than he could comprehend.

      But still Tommy stood there with the check in his outstretched hand. The proprietor, who had his hat and coat on, was now in the doorway. Tommy made a last appeal.

      "That — that beat was an accident."

      "A mighty lucky accident for you," interjected Rackingham incredulously.

      "I guessed most of it," persisted Tommy, unheeding the city editor.

      "You were a good guesser," chimed in the managing editor, seeming to enjoy the humor of the situation.

      "To tell the truth," went on Tommy, determined to satisfy his conscience, "I faked the account from beginning to end."

      The proprietor stopped at this; he walked back into the room. For many seconds — they seemed minutes to Tommy — he gazed at the penitent. Then he reached over and took the fluttering bit of paper out of Tommy's trembling hand.

      "Well," he said finally, with heavy emphasis on each word, "you are at least an honest man."

      An awkward silence followed.

      The editor-in-chief at last broke the silence. "In view of what you have just said we can't give you this check. It would not be right."

      He tore the check into tiny bits and threw the fragments on the floor as he spoke.

      "But, my boy," he continued as he put his hand on Tommy's shoulder, "you know how to write. This fake of yours shows that. We will stand by you now, if you will stand by the paper in the future. How about it, my boy?"

      "I will," stammered Tommy.

      And he did.

(THE END)