It was child's play
to him. He knew nothing about editors, but he walked into the office of
the newspaper which he had picked up, and explained his mission.
"We are not looking for new contributors at present," he was told a
little curtly. "What paper have you been on?"
"I have never written anything before in my life," Burton confessed,
"but this is much better than 'London Awake,' which you published a few
evenings ago."
The sub-editor of that newspaper looked at him with kindly contempt.
"'London Awake' was written for us by Rupert Mendosa. We don't get
beginner's stuff like that. I don't think it will be the least use, but
I'll look at your article if you like--quick!"
Burton handed over his copy with calm confidence. It was shockingly
written on odd pieces of paper, pinned together anyhow--an untidy and
extraordinary-looking production. The sub-editor very nearly threw it
contemptuously back. Instead he glanced at it, frowned, read a little
more, and went on reading. When he had finished, he looked at this
strange, thin young man with the pallid cheeks and deep-set eyes, in
something like awe.
"You wrote this yourself?" he asked.
"Certainly, sir," Burton answered. "If it is really worth putting in
your paper and paying for, you can have plenty more.
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