The diamond drill., 1903-01-17

IT was getting on toward FIVE
o'clock. The work had been spe-
cially trying all that day because of
interruption and rush of outside
matters, and on account of the extra,
which had TO be gotten out concern
ing the strike.
To the credit of the management,
this extra had been rushed through
the press, and was on the street ex-
actly 30 minutes after the last con-
ference, everything having been pre-
pared 10 announce strikes or" or
"Strike TO BE Continued" according
to the circumstances.
The Evening Chronicle was a pro-
gressive, clever sheet, and the editor
knew n good thing when he saw it..
1t had only taken him five minutes
to make up his mind as to the tall,
handsome young woman who applied
for work on his paper.
Betty Stanford, society editor,
looked flushed and tired, as she
leaned back in the big Office chair
she was occupying in her own special
den, and she felt distinctly jaded and
equally despondent, although she
would not admit il even to herself.
Her six months of routine work
on the Chronicle, to which had been
applied any amount of energy and
brains, had had the effect of delight
ing and astounding the editor, Tom
Dickerson, and Of giving her a week
ly amount which kept starvation
from the doors Of her rooms, her
present abode, with few extras
thrown In.
These rooms were located in the
third story of spacious old house
which had seen better days, but was
now run by Mrs. Beesley as select
boarding house.
Betty's rooms had big dormer win
dows, overlooking a beautiful view
Of the river, the crowded and busy
harbor, and a picturesque tangle OF
shipping of all description strung
along the river front.
These dormer windows were filed
with plants, and Betty's bedroom
and small sitting room were SO lux
uriously furnished, considering her
weekly salary, that Mary Crawford,
who did reporting very cleyerly for
the Chronicle, and was n shrewd and
big-hearted girl, and the only person
thus far admitted across the thres-
hold of Betty's door, was openly
amazed when first ushered in that
sanctum for live-o'clock tea, one cold,
bleak. drizzly afternoon.
Mary Crawford opened her eyes at
the sight Of the heavy monogramed
silver on the dressing table, the
books and pictures, the draperies and
easy chairs scattered around, and
other evidences of many more dol
lars than the Chronicle was in the
habit of paying to its numerous en-
ployes.
Mary said nothing, but looked
with admiring envy, when Betty
slipped into an embroidered kimona
and slippers, whose beauty took her
breath away, and started to make
piea.
!. To-day Betty, sitting in her Office,
Thought life as gray Hshd dull as the
Weather outside, which had drifted
into steady, determined winter
rain.
"You1l find lot of ideas in here,
Miss Stanford" n young man said,
coming i'm briskly and putting n roll
of exchanges on Betty's big desk.
He was assistant editor, and had
laid down arms before Betty's
changeable gray eyes, two weeks af'
ter she had interviewed the editor,
and been occupied 10 look after the
woman's page and read proof, eilj
elip reprint when necessary
Say, Miss Stanford, you're doing
first rate. / heard the boss say you
are the best proofreader he ever had
JIe says you have the stun in you to
make first class newspaper wo
man." Dick Turner said confidential
ly. leaning forward on the desk, a
wondering admiration being visible
for the singuIarly handsome girl
whose strange, unconscious grace
seemed to- belong 90 some other
place. and not n stufy room in tn,
Chronicles building.
Thanking him with smile, which
was intended to be bright, but which