He had been doing it nearly a month and he was only twenty-one.

It was his first job.

Ambition tickled his ribs; Fame leaned familiarly over his shoulder; Destiny made eyes at him.

His name was Bunn.
There was also a smooth-shaven, tired-eyed, little man who had written a volume on Welsh-rarebits and now drew cartoons.

His function was to torment Bunn; and Bunn never knew it.
A critic rose from the busy company and departed, to add lustre to his paper and a nail in the coffin of the only really clever play in town.
"Kismet," observed little Dill, who did the daily cartoon for the _Post_, "no critic would be a critic if he could be a fifth-rate anybody else--or," he added, looking at Bunn, "even a journalist." "Is that supposed to be funny ?" asked Bunn complacently.