see. You want to be a Dissenting minister, and you're working for your education. Very creditable of you, I'm sure. And you're a stranger in New York, you say?"
"Utter," returned Simpkins.
Mrs. Athelstone proceeded to question him at some length about his qualifications. When he had satisfied her that he was competent to attend to the easy, clerical work of the office and to care for the more valuable articles in the hall, things which she did not care to leave to the regular cleaners, she concluded:
"I'm disposed to give you a trial, Mr. Simpkins, but I want you to understand that under no circumstances are you to talk about me or your work outside the office. I've been so hunted and harried by reporters----" And her voice broke. "What I want above all else is a clerk that I can trust."
The assurance which Simpkins gave in reply came harder than all the lies he had told that morning, and, some way, none of them had slipped out so smoothly as usual. He was a fairly truthful and tender-hearted man
The False Gods by George Horace Lorimer (1868-1937) is somewhat of a cheat.
Though Lorimer was the editor-in-chief of The Saturday Evening Post from (1899-1936), this tale of what first appears to be a murder mystery turns out only to be a rant against the evils of yellow journalism and how an amoral journalism can destroy people's innocent reputations.
Not that I deny the point, but a story that becomes a bully pulpit seldom tells a good tale.
C. Alan Loewen