There was something in the side of life I saw, too, not only on the paper, that made me heart-sick; and then the rush and fight and scramble to be first, to beat the other man.
Probably I am too squeamish.

I saw classmates and college friends diving into it, bound to come out ahead, dear old, honest, frank fellows, who had been so happy-go-lucky and kind and gay, growing too busy to meet and be good to any man who couldn't be good to them, asking (more delicately) the eternal question, 'What does it get me ?' You might think I bad-met with unkindness; but it was not so; it was the other way more than I deserved.

But the cruel competition, the thousands fighting for places, the multitude scrambling for each ginger-bread baton, the cold faces on the streets--perhaps it's all right and good; of course it has to _be_--but I wanted to get out of it, though I didn't want to come _here_.

That was chance.

A new man bought the paper I was working for, and its policy changed.