Bob Eden picked up the book, and turned the pages with interest. “I’ve been thinking of getting a job on a newspaper myself,” he said.
Holley looked at him quickly. “Think twice,” he advised. “You, with a good business waiting for you—what has the newspaper game to offer you? Great while you’re young, maybe—great even now when the old order is changing and the picture paper is making a monkey out of a grand profession. But when you’re old—” He got up and laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “When you’re old—and you’re old at forty—then what? The copy desk, and some day the owner comes in, and sees a streak of gray in your hair, and he says,’Throw that doddering fool out. I want young men here.’No, my boy—not the newspaper game. You and I must have a long talk.”
They had it. It was five by the little clock on Holley’s desk when the editor finally stood up, and closed his scrapbook. “Come on,” he said. “I’m taking you to the Oasis for dinner.”
Eden went gladly. At one of the tables opposite the narrow counter, Paula Wendell sat alone.
“Hello,” she greeted them. “Come over here. I felt in an expansive mood tonight—had to have the prestige of a table.”
They sat down opposite her. “Did you find the day as dull as you expected?” inquired the girl of Eden.
“Very dull by contrast, after you left me,” he answered.
“Try the chicken,” she advised. “Born and raised right here at home, and the desert hen is no weak sister. Not so bad, however.”
They accepted her suggestion. When the generously filled
