own glorification?  Such thoughts may come to middle age; but
never to ardent three-and-twenty in the fever of his first love.

                            CHAPTER II

            "Try Your Luck with Professor Challenger"

I always liked McArdle, the crabbed, old, round-backed,
red-headed news editor, and I rather hoped that he liked me. 
Of course, Beaumont was the real boss; but he lived in the
rarefied atmosphere of some Olympian height from which he could
distinguish nothing smaller than an international crisis or a
split in the Cabinet.  Sometimes we saw him passing in lonely
majesty to his inner sanctum, with his eyes staring vaguely and
his mind hovering over the Balkans or the Persian Gulf.  He was
above and beyond us.  But McArdle was his first lieutenant, and
it was he that we knew.  The old man nodded as I entered the
room, and he pushed his spectacles far up on his bald forehead.

"Well, Mr. Malone, from all I hear, you seem to be doing very
well," said he in his kindly Scotch accent.

I thanked him.

"The colliery explosion was excellent.  So was the Southwark fire. 
You have the true descreeptive touch.  What did you want to see
me about?"

"To ask a favor."

He looked alarmed, and his eyes shunned mine. "Tut, tut!  What is it?"

"Do you think, Sir, that you could possibly send me on some
mission for the paper?  I would do my best to put it through and
get you some good copy."

"What sort of meesion had you in your mind, Mr. Malone?"

"Well, Sir, anything that had adventure and danger in it. 
I really would do my very best.  The more difficult it was, the
better it would suit me."

"You seem very anxious to lose your life."

"To justify my life, Sir."

"Dear me, Mr. Malone, this is very--very exalted.  I'm afraid the
day for this sort of thing is rather past.  The expense of the
`special meesion' business hardly justifies the result, and, of
course, in any case it would only be an experienced man with a
name that would command public confidence who would get such
an order.  The big blank spaces in the map are all being filled in,
and there's no room for romance anywhere.  Wait a bit, though!"
he added, with a sudden smile upon his face.  "Talking of the
blank spaces of the map gives me an idea.  What about exposing a
fraud--a modern Munchausen--and making him rideeculous?  You could
show him up as the liar that he is!  Eh, man, it would be fine.
How does it appeal to you?"

"Anything--anywhere--I care nothing."

McArdle was plunged in thought for some minutes.

"I wonder whether you could get on friendly--or at least on
talking terms with the fellow," he said, at last.  "You seem to
have a sort of genius for establishing relations with
people--seempathy, I suppose, or animal magnetism, or youthful
vitality, or something.  I am conscious of it myself."

"You are very good, sir."

"So why should you not try your luck with Professor Challenger,
of Enmore Park?"

I dare say I looked a little startled.

"Challenger!" I cried.  "Professor Challenger, the famous zoologist! 
Wasn't he the man who broke the skull of Blundell, of the Telegraph?"

The news editor smiled grimly.

"Do you mind?  Didn't you say it was adventures you were after?"

"It is all in the way of business, sir," I answered.

"Exactly.  I don't suppose he can always be so violent as that. 
I'm thinking that Blundell got him at the wrong moment, maybe, or
in the wrong fashion.  You may have better luck, or more tact in
handling him.  There's something in your line there, I am sure,
and the Gazette should work it."

"I really know nothing about him," said I.  I only remember his
name in connection with the police-court proceedings, for
striking Blundell."

"I have a few notes for your guidance, Mr. Malone.  I've had my
eye on the Professor for some little time."  He took a paper from
a drawer. "Here is a summary of his record.  I give it you briefly:--

"`Challenger, George Edward.  Born: Largs, N. B., 1863.  Educ.: