He rode there with a free lance--known by all the editors--capable in his way--a man to be relied upon for anything but imagination.

From one office to another, he trudged; climbing numberless stairs, filling in numberless slips of paper with his name, saying nothing about his business.

They knew his business--the ability to do anything that was going.

He had written leaders on the advance of Socialism--criticized a play, reviewed a book.

It says little beyond the fact that one is ready and willing to do these things.
So, until the nearing hour of lunch time, he went about--a scavenger of jobs--sweeping up the refuse of the paper's needs, as the boys in Covent Garden search through the barrows of sawdust for the stray, green grapes that have been thrown out with the brushings of the stalls.
If one knew how half the men in London find the way to live, one would stand amazed.