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What do you want, anyway? Business end? News end? What?"

"News," said Jock with emphasis.

"Ever done any writing?"

"Just at college. Of course that doesn't mean anything. But I think I can, Mr. Havens."

"Damn right he can!" put in Johnny. "I've read some of his stuff my brother-in-law sent Peg in the olden days. He's got more literary ability than any staff man ever needed. Also personality, guts, and everything else you'd want."

"This your press agent?" grinned Mr. Havens, pointing a thumb at his son.

"Seems to be," Jock said, also grinning.

"Well, we'll try you, see if he's right."

Which was all there was to it. They parted soon after; the Havens, père et fils, to return whence they had come; Jock to rush into the nearest telephone booth, demand his mother's number, and say in a voice which he vainly strove to control, "Hello! Mrs. Madelaine Hamill? A reporter from the Log speaking" . . .

There was assembled in the Washington Square apartment on the following afternoon a representative group of kindred spirits, to the number of twelve. Of these twelve, six were shooting dice in a circle on the floor. Two—a girl with straight blonde bobbed hair, like yellow paint, and a boy in a West Point uniform—were seated close together on a divan, wearing that desperately solemn expression of countenance young people wear only when they are discussing one