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172 of the Mobile Press. My own name is Robert O'Neill—a humble editorial writer on the same sheet."

"Uh, huh. If you had jobs for God's sake why did you leave them?"

"Ah, you may well ask." The red-haired one dropped, uninvited, into a chair. "Old man, it's a dramatic story. The chief of police of Mobile happened to be a crook and a grafter, and we happened to mention it in the Press. Night before last twenty-five armed cops invaded the peace and sanctity of our sanctum. Harry and I—pure accident—landed in the same general heap at the foot of the fire-escape out back. And here we are! Here we are!"

"My newspaper instinct," said the Chronicle man, "had already enabled me to gather that last."

Sarcasm. It was a bad sign. But blithely Bob O'Neill continued.

"Here we are," he said, "two experienced newspaper men, down and out. We thought there might possibly be a vacancy or two on the staff of your paper—"