ugly and fearsome thing. His sense of humour was unlimited--in repartee
he easily held his own. He was agreeable to everybody, but he never
sought acquaintances, and avoided intimacies. More especially was he
averse to any mention of his earlier days.

Speedwell, sub-editor of the _Minute_, buttonholed him one day at the
club, and led him into a corner.

"You are the very man I wanted to see, Jesson," he exclaimed. "Have a
drink?"

"I've just dined, thanks," Douglas answered. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm giving some space in my rag," Speedwell explained, blandly, "to a
series of memoirs on prominent journalists of the day, and I want to
include you."

"I'm sure you're very kind," Douglas answered, "but you can't be in
earnest. To begin with, I'm not a prominent journalist, and I don't
suppose I ever shall be--"

"Well, you're a bit of a miracle, you know," Speedwell interrupted.
"You've come to the front so quickly, and you've a method of your
own--the staccato, nervous style, you know, with lots of colour and
dashes. I wish I'd a man on the staff who could do it. Still, that's
neither here nor there, and you needn't think I'm hinting, for I tell
you frankly the _Minute_ can't afford large-salaried men. What I want
from you is a photograph, and just a little sketch of your early
life--where you were born, and where you went to school, and that sort
of thing. It mayn't do you much good, but it can't do you any harm, and