I always liked McArdle, the crabbed, old, round-backed, red-headed news editor, and I ratherhoped that he liked me.

Of course, Beaumont was the real boss; but he lived in the rarefiedatmosphere of some Olympian height from which he could distinguish nothing smaller than aninternational crisis or a split in the Cabinet.

Sometimes we saw him passing in lonely majesty tohis inner sanctum, with his eyes staring vaguely and his mind hovering over the Balkans or thePersian Gulf.

He was above and beyond us. But McArdle was his first lieutenant, and it was hethat we knew.

The old man nodded as I entered the room, and he pushed his spectacles far up onhis bald forehead."Well, Mr. Malone, from all I hear, you seem to be doing very well," said he in his kindlyScotch accent.I thanked him."The colliery explosion was excellent.

So was the Southwark fire. You have the truedescreeptive touch. What did you want to see me about?""To ask a favor."He looked alarmed, and his eyes shunned mine. "Tut, tut! What is it?""Do you think, Sir, that you could possibly send me on some mission for the paper?

I woulddo my best to put it through and get you some good copy.""What sort of meesion had you in your mind, Mr. Malone?""Well, Sir, anything that had adventure and danger in it.

I really would do my very best. Themore difficult it was, the better it would suit me.""You seem very anxious to lose your life.""To justify my life, Sir."