"Yes."

"Rotten story. Not half played up. Report to Jenkins at the City
Hall."

"Now?"

"Now. Think I meant next year?"

The city editor was already lost in the reading of more copy.

Inside of half an hour Jeff was at work on his first assignment.
Some derelict had committed suicide under the very shadow of the
City Hall. Upon the body was a note scrawled on the bask of a
dirty envelope.

Sick and out of work. Notify Henry Simmons, 237 River Street, San
Francisco.

Jenkins, his hands in his pockets, looked at the body
indifferently and turned the story over to the cub with a nod of
his head.

"Go to it. Half a stick," he said.

From another reporter Jeff learned how much half a stick is. He
wrote the account. When he had read it Jenkins glanced sharply at
him. Though only the barest facts were told there was a sob in the
story.