"Not at all," said Roland. "Not at all."

He went on his way, tingling with just triumph. Petheram? Who was
Petheram? Who, in the name of goodness, was Petheram? He had put
Petheram in his proper place, he rather fancied. Petheram, forsooth.
Laughable.

A copy of the current number of 'Squibs,' purchased at a book-stall,
informed him, after a minute search to find the editorial page, that
the offices of the paper were in Fetter Lane. It was evidence of his
exalted state of mind that he proceeded thither in a cab.

Fetter Lane is one of those streets in which rooms that have only just
escaped being cupboards by a few feet achieve the dignity of offices.
There might have been space to swing a cat in the editorial sanctum of
'Squibs,' but it would have been a near thing. As for the outer office,
in which a vacant-faced lad of fifteen received Roland and instructed
him to wait while he took his card in to Mr. Petheram, it was a mere
box. Roland was afraid to expand his chest for fear of bruising it.

The boy returned to say that Mr. Petheram would see him.

Mr. Petheram was a young man with a mop of hair, and an air of almost
painful restraint. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and the table before
him was heaped high with papers. Opposite him, evidently in the act of
taking his leave was a comfortable-looking man of middle age with a red
face and a short beard. He left as Roland entered and Roland was
surprized to see Mr. Petheram spring to his feet, shake his fist at the
closing door, and kick the wall with a vehemence which brought down
several inches of discolored plaster.