dark days for the _Post_. That it managed to survive them at all was due
chiefly to the personality of Colonel Cowles, who, though doubtless
laughable as a political economist, was yet considered to have his good
points. But the Hercules-labor grew too heavy even for him, and the
paper was headed straight for the auctioneer's block when new interests
suddenly stepped in and bought it. These interests, consisting largely
of progressive men of the younger generation, thoroughly overhauled and
reorganized the property, laid in the needed purple ink, and were now
gradually driving the old paper back to the dividend-paying point again.

Colonel Cowles, whose services had, of course, been retained, was of the
old school of journalism, editor and manager, too. Very little went into
the _Post_ that he had not personally viséd in the proof: forty galleys
a night were child's play to him. Managing editor there was none but
himself; the city editor was his mere office-boy and mouthpiece; even
the august business manager, who mingled with great advertisers on equal
terms, was known to take orders from him. In addition the Colonel wrote
three columns of editorials every day. Of these editorials it is enough
to say at this point that there were people who liked them.

Toward this dominant personality, the reluctant applicant for work now
made his way. He cut an absent-minded figure upon the street, did Mr.
Queed, but this time he made his crossings without mishap. Undisturbed
by dogs, he landed at the _Post_ building, and in time blundered into a
room described as "Editorial" on the glass-door. A friendly young girl
sitting there, pounding away on a typewriter, referred him to the next
office, and the young man, opening the connecting door without knocking,
passed inside.

A full-bodied, gray-headed, gray-mustached man sat in his shirt-sleeves