They found Jim on deck, and buried up to his ears in work. He seemed
to enjoy it to the limit, too, for it made him appear so responsible
and tickled his vanity. He grinned at seeing his two young friends.

"I suppose now you've read my latest effusion, boys?" Jim remarked,
with an assumption of extreme modesty, which, however, hardly suited
his usual bold demeanor.

Jim had all a reporter's "nerve," and could coolly face a raging
subscriber who had dropped in to ask to have his subscription closed
because of a certain offensive article in the last issue--yes, and
likely as not Jim could soothe the ruffled feathers of the enraged
man, show him how he had really been paid a compliment, and finally
bow him out of the office with another year's subscription left in
the shape of a dollar and a half in good money.

"We've fairly _devoured_ it, Jim," frankly admitted Thad. "Why, I
can repeat it off-hand right now, I've read it so often. And Jim,
I want to say that it's as clever a piece of work as I ever got
hold of. That terrible Texan stands out as clear as print. Everybody
in Scranton will be rubbering all today, thinking they can see
Marshal Hastings in each stranger in town. I congratulate you,
Jim; you're a peach at your trade, believe me."

Of course that sort of "gush" just tickled Jim immensely. He tried
not to show it, but his eyes were twinkling with gratified vanity.
It was fine to hear other people complimenting him so warmly, even
though they were but boys from Scranton High. Praise is acceptable
even from the lowly; and Jim made queer motions with his lips as