In the office cubicle, Jenny's scalp tightened at Frank's words. She looked at his expression, unsure if this was genuine advice or a test of whether she was foolish. Mr. Eliot was furious, and she hadn't yet figured out this boss's temper—how could she dare to go? As luck would have it, Mr. Bacon Luther, the typist silently working on manuscripts in the corner of Frank's office, turned to look at Jenny. Mr. Luther was a veteran employee at Dawling, now the personal typist for Mr. Alpha, the section editor, and considered Frank a partner. Seeing that Frank seemed to regard Jenny as one of his own, he spoke casually: "Don't worry. Although Mr. Eliot has a bad temper, he respects facts. As long as you can solve the problem, he won't vent his anger on you." Jenny shook her head at this. Mr. Luther had no reason to deceive her about Mr. Eliot's character. But after a whole day of working together, she also knew Polly's nature. If she openly stepped on Polly to climb up, the other woman would cry all night in the dormitory—that would be... If she really had to intervene, it would have to be at Polly's request. "I still have things to do, and I might not satisfy Mr. Eliot anyway," she said. Frank shrugged, sensing that Jenny might be a loyal person. "In that case, help me organize these materials and write an outline based on chronology," he said. Jenny quickly agreed, picked up the materials, walked out of the cubicle, and sat back at her desk. Mr. Eliot had called Mr. Clare over to continue his reprimands, temporarily letting Polly off to continue revising. Polly sat back down opposite Jenny, still sniffling and crying. Nearby, Mr. Eliot's personal typist, William Vanning, couldn't stand it anymore. He turned from another row of desks, handed Polly a handkerchief, and frowned, telling her to wipe her nose. In a low voice, he said, "Mr. Eliot treats everyone like this, not just you. Better get it done quickly." Then William Vanning returned to his seat to proofread the paragraphs Mr. Eliot had just revised. Polly thought she was probably incapable of fixing the story today, so she looked around. Fujena and Cowens were writing drafts for the section editor. Mr. Clare and William were also writing backup short stories to fill possible layout gaps. The people under Editor Sharpe clearly wouldn't help her. Even Monique looked like she was enjoying the show. Polly's gaze swept the room and landed back on Jenny, who was diligently organizing materials. She seemed the easiest to approach. Hard at work, Jenny suddenly felt a tap on her arm. Polly looked at her pleadingly and lowered her voice: "Jenny, I'll treat you to dinner tonight. Could you take a look for me? I've revised it so many times, I don't know how to proceed anymore..." Jenny paused for a moment, unsurprised, and refused twice. Only on the third try did she relent. "No need for dinner. Tonight, you carry a bucket of water upstairs for me, and we'll call it even. And I want your word that there won't be a second time." Polly nodded quickly. Jenny reached over, pulled out the original manuscript, and with a pen struck out several paragraphs. On a blank sheet, she annotated all the sections that needed additional description and revision. In less than half an hour, she had processed the entire article. Polly took the pages, stunned, and quickly copied them. Jenny then turned to organizing what Frank needed. She listed the deceased author's works, skimmed through them all, and divided them into three creative periods by style. She selected representative works from each period, read them carefully, and extracted classic lines and character sketches with strong personal flair, also jotting down her own opinions. Satisfied, she went into the office and handed the outline to Frank. Sitting behind his desk, Frank examined the result for a long while. He privately thought that a commemorative column needed genuine remembrance and understanding of the author's creation. The subject was the deceased, so the writer had to restrain their own presence, or the piece would seem hypocritical and fail to move readers. Jenny hadn't made that mistake; she had done better than expected. Frank pressed his lips together, regretting more than ever that he hadn't insisted on hiring her away from Mr. Eliot during the interview. A moment of hesitation had led to eternal regret. Outside, Fujena had finished organizing the drafted documents. She raised her hand and knocked on the cubicle door. Upon being allowed in, she entered and saw Jenny standing in Frank's office. Frank looked up and said to Jenny, "I'll tell Mr. Alpha that you wrote this outline." At that, Fujena paused, her brow slightly furrowed, and glanced at the desk. Seeing it was the outline for Mr. Alpha's anniversary column, she felt a pang of resentment. She bowed her head slightly, observing Frank's gaze toward Jenny—a look full of appreciation, even gratification, completely ignoring everyone else. If she hadn't been chosen as Mr. Alpha's clerk during the interview, why should all the opportunities go to her now? Fujena pretended not to care, turned aside to let Jenny pass. Outside, the sky was growing dark; it was nearly time to leave. Jenny adjusted the gaslight on her desk to be brighter. Polly stood for a while in front of Mr. Eliot's desk with the revised manuscript. Mr. Eliot knew at a glance that this wasn't Polly's level; he had a good idea who might have done it. But he cared only about results, not the process. He nodded and had Polly send the manuscript to the typesetting and proofreading rooms. Near quitting time, Jenny helped Mr. Clare with some small tasks. Finally, when it was completely dark, Mr. Eliot lit a fire in the editorial office and began smoking a cigar. Seeing this, everyone knew he was wrapping up the day's work, and the atmosphere relaxed. Reportedly, this was Mr. Eliot's habit: he disliked delaying planned work, even if it meant working until dawn. Before leaving, he would light a cigar, relax his mind, and sort out the next day's tasks, then go home. After Mr. Eliot sent all the day's proofs into Mr. Alpha's office for review, Mr. Alpha emerged. He had spent the whole day reading past issues of Century Weekly, silently comparing the quality of content produced under Mr. Eliot's direction. Finally, Mr. Alpha praised the work of Mr. Eliot's editorial team to the whole section. "Everyone worked hard today. Dinner is on me tonight." Mr. Eliot didn't stand on ceremony. "Since you said it, I won't be polite. I haven't been to Delmonico's in ages—I can never get a reservation. But I'm sure Mr. Alpha has the clout." Immediately, the office erupted in cheers. Mr. Alpha spread his hands helplessly. "That's nothing. If you can guarantee next month's sales, I'll treat every day." Hearing the commotion, Mr. York from the neighboring section also came out of his office. Not wanting to be outdone, he immediately announced that he would treat his two editorial teams. In the end, all forty to fifty people from Century Weekly benefited, and even the editor-in-chief, Mr. Baker, and his secretary got involved. Downstairs at the Dawling Building, ten carriages were organized, and everyone cheerfully followed their bosses to Fifth Avenue. After getting off, relying on his connections, Mr. Baker managed to secure a large hall at Delmonico's Restaurant, which normally required a reservation a month in advance. As the crowd entered the restaurant, Jenny looked around at the opulent surroundings and immediately encountered the most dramatic scene. They were not the only ones dining there tonight. There, Mr. Andrew Dawling came down the arched staircase in the lobby, flanked by his cousins Remiel Dawling and Anselm Dawling. Behind them followed four others: Devlin Dawling, Zweit Dawling, Corey Dawling, and Claude Dawling. No one had calculated the odds of seeing all seven Dawling cousins at once, but at that moment, the scene froze. Mr. Baker, who had been so cheerful earlier, immediately trotted over respectfully, smiling broadly, shaking hands with each of them in turn, and introducing himself effusively. Jenny hid in the crowd, while beside her, Frank secretly pointed out which partners were which. Just as she was silently mocking Mr. Baker's sudden fawning, Jenny caught sight of a face in the crowd and turned pale. "What's wrong, Jenny?" Polly poked her. Jenny snapped out of it and shook her head, relieved that Zweit Dawling didn't oversee the magazine division and surely wouldn't remember any insignificant clerk. The partners were there to host a farewell dinner for Corey Dawling, who was about to take over the Berlin office. They were to take the train back to the family estate in Albany the next day for the formal send-off. They didn't stay long at the restaurant, leaving the venue to the editorial team. As they left, Andrew Dawling instructed that all expenses for the editorial department be charged to his account. After a heart-stopping start, the dinner began, and Jenny experienced the ultimate pleasure of money for the first time. Seated at the table, her eyes were opened wide. The cutlery was all sterling silver, the walls were lined with mirrors, and waiters in tailcoats poured champagne into her tulip-shaped glass. The menu featured the most popular dishes: Lobster Newburg, Alaskan Baked, Keen's Chicken, Crotan Sweetbreads, Sorrento Ham, and Imperial Salmon. A few plates here cost as much as her entire week's salary. She doubted she would ever afford such a meal on her own merits again. Jenny felt it was unlikely, and regretted having eaten that extra sandwich at lunch. She resolutely buried her head in the feast, not speaking to anyone. After the lavish meal ended, Jenny heard the midnight chime. At the head of the long table, Mr. Baker and the section editors were already drunk. The secretaries, of course, hadn't touched a drop of alcohol, managing everything before and after the meal and smoothly arranging for everyone to be sent home. Finally, Frank personally escorted several colleagues back to the dormitory. On the way, he mentioned something Mr. Alpha had said while drunk: "Mr. Alpha said he plans to allocate two bylines to clerks in the new quarter. As for who gets them, it's entirely up to his personal preference..." With that, Frank glanced subtly at Ronald, who sat there arrogantly, as if he had long known the bylines were tailored for his promotion path. But the others in the carriage didn't notice Ronald's expression. Jenny, in the darkness, suddenly perked up. Bylines? When had clerks ever gotten bylines? And two slots. In Eastern parlance, this was like their ancestral graves catching fire—a rare and fleeting opportunity. Fujena, also sobering up, noticed Jenny's contemplative look and felt a tightness in her chest. The carriages jolted along, passing through New York's busiest districts, heading toward the dormitory building behind the Dawling Building. After a short break during the journey, everyone was fully awake from the wind. Back at the dormitory, they planned to wash up and sleep. Polly hadn't forgotten her promise to carry water for Jenny. In the dim corridor, she climbed the stairs with a bucket of water, sweating and panting. On the third floor, she rested a moment and heard someone call her. Turning, she saw Fujena. "Fujena?" Fujena signaled her to be quiet and whispered something in her ear. "What? Clerks can get bylines too?" "Yes, two slots. You need to be more careful from now on—don't let others use you to show off..." Polly scratched her head, confused. Fujena inwardly scorned Polly's slow wit but continued to coax her. "You're so naive. Why would she help you for nothing? Mr. Eliot knew at once it was her work. You've been used as a stepping stone and don't even realize it." Polly became flustered. "So that's how it is? And I thought she was nice." In the corridor, after their murmuring died down, Jenny emerged from Mrs. Brown's office. Twenty minutes earlier, seeing that Polly hadn't returned, Jenny had planned to rest, but Mrs. Brown called her down. Since Jenny's departure, her cousin White had been inquiring about her whereabouts. Learning from someone in the printing department that she had become a clerk and moved into the dormitory, he wrote a long letter and sent her some money. Mrs. Brown had been waiting for her all afternoon. Jenny had just finished dealing with the conscientious Mrs. Brown, leaving a little gratuity. As she stepped into the corridor, she overheard something she shouldn't have, and quickly ducked around a corner. That troublemaker's few words of instigation, and Polly had already believed them. Jenny rolled her eyes at the air, silently thanking her cousin once again—truly her benefactor.