"You are back early, Tom. Found something special?"

"Yes," Reynolds replied as he sat down upon the only vacant chair the
office contained. "But nothing for publication."

The editor pushed back his papers, swung himself around in his chair
and faced the visitor.

"What is it, Tom?" he asked. "You look more animated than I have seen
you for many a day. What has come over you? What is the special
something you have found?"

"Myself."

"Yourself!"

"That's just it. I'm through with this job."

The editor eyed the young man curiously yet sympathetically. He was to
him as a son, and he had done everything in his power to help him since
his return from the war. But he was well aware that Reynolds was not
happy, and that newspaper work was proving most uncongenial.

"Where are you going, Tom, and what are you going to do?" he presently
asked.

"I have not the slightest idea, sir. But I must get away from this
hum-drum existence. It is killing me by inches. I need adventure,
life in the open, where a man can breathe freely and do as he likes."