"Anthy," he began, "I came back on purpose to--to make a proposition to you to-night----"

He published his intention by the very sound of his voice, which trembled a little in spite of the confidence he had felt beforehand.

I fancy I can see Anthy, too, as she stood facing him there at the foot of the stairs in the old hallway, with the flower-filled urns on the wall paper. So much of the thing in her eyes as she looked at him whimsically, it must have been, and yet kindly, Ed could never have understood. He could never have understood the other Anthy, the Anthy whose letters to Mr. Lincoln lie here in my desk.

I am not clear as to exactly what happened next, and no more, I think, was Ed; but he went out and down the steps without having told Anthy what his "proposition" was, and firmly believing that she did not know how dangerously near he had come to committing himself. Women know how to do these things. Ed did not rush away as Nort had done, nor fall over the honeysuckle bush, nor lose his hat--nor his head. Not Ed! But as he walked back home a faint suspicion began to rankle in his soul that his course might not be as clear as he had supposed.

The most irresistible man to women is the one who seems to know least that they are women at all. But Ed Smith was not of this sort. Ed's practical thoughts were ever hanging about the idea of marriage. He fell more or less deeply in love with every pretty girl he met, made elaborately gallant speeches, brought her flowers, pop corn, and chewing gum, tried to hold her hand, and began, warily, to consider her as a prospective Mrs. Smith, weighing her qualifications, quite sensibly, for that responsible position. Oh, Ed had been a good deal of a "lady's man"

in his time: knew well his many qualifications, and often congratulated himself that he would never be "caught" until he was "good and ready."

There was more than one girl--he had only to "crook his finger."

While he was away he began to think of Anthy. She was somehow different from any girl he had ever known. He couldn't quite understand why it was, but there was something about her, even though she might be a little "slow" and "quiet" for a man like him. And the more he thought of her the more excellent reasons occurred to him for yielding to his feelings. She was the owner of the _Star_, which was already beginning to show signs of vigorous life, and she was a "mighty smart girl" into the bargain. She would be an ornament to any man's house.

It was the vague glimmer of the new idea that any girl should not wish to become Mrs. Smith when she was given a fair opportunity that now occurred to him painfully, for the first time in his life. The thought of Nort began to grow upon him, the thought, also, that some of his rights were being trodden upon. Had he not come to the _Star_ with the idea that Anthy---- Could he not have made a lot more money by going with the Dexter _Enterprise_?

It is astonishing how cunningly life prepares for its explosions, how adroitly it combines the nitre, the charcoal, the sulphur, of human nature. First it grinds the ingredients separately--as Ed Smith was being ground, as the spirit of Norton Carr was ground--and then it mixes them in a mill, say a pleasant country printing-office, with a wren's nest at the gable end, and there it subjects them to the enormous pressure of necessity, of pa.s.sion, of ambition. And when the mixture is made, though the fuse which life lays may be long, the explosion is sure to follow. A spark, say a stick of pied type, or a vagabond printer absurdly looking for the truth of things, or the look in a girl's eyes, and, bang--the world will never again be exactly what it was before.

Events moved swiftly with the _Star_ of Hempfield that forenoon. You would not believe that so much could happen in a drowsy country printing-office, on a drowsy Monday morning, in so short a time. I was there when Nort came in, all unsuspecting. He came in quietly, not at all like himself; he was, in fact, low in his spirits. He glanced at Ed Smith, and began, as usual, to take off his coat in the corner. Ed was sitting at his desk fiercely at work.

"Carr," said he, scarcely turning his head, "you needn't take off your coat. Won't need you any longer. Gotta economize. Gotta cut down expenses. I'll pay you what's coming to you right now."

There was a moment of absolute silence in the office. Tom, the cat, was asleep by the stove. Fergus and I waited breathlessly. I fully expected to see Nort explode; I didn't know in just what way, but somehow, in Nort's way, whatever that might be. But he merely stood there, coat half off, looking utterly mystified. Ed turned halfway around.

"Here's your money," he said.

The thing in all its crude reality was still incomprehensible to Nort.

He didn't know that such things were ever done in the world.

"You mean----" he stammered.

Ed was very angry. I excuse him somewhat on that ground, and Nort was only a tramp printer anyway.

"You're fired," he said doggedly, "and here's your wages to date."

I wish I could describe the effect on Nort. It was as though some light air blew across him. He had looked heavy and depressed when he came in: now his shoulders straightened, his chin lifted, and the old, reckless smile came into his face. He swept us all with a look of amused astonishment, and then, slipping back into his coat, said:

"Well, good-bye, Mr. Smith," and turned and went out of the office.

Ed jumped from his chair.

"Here's your cash," he said.

But Nort had gone out.

"Well, I'll be hanged!" observed Ed, quickly putting the money back in his pocket.

I am slow, slow! I have always wished since then that I had been quick enough to do what Fergus did. It was not that I did not love Nort----

When I looked around Fergus was gone. He had slipped out of the back door. He caught Nort at the gate, and grasped his hand so hard that Nort said it hurt him for a week afterward. He tried to say something, but his face worked so that he couldn't. Then he was suddenly ashamed of himself, and came running back into the office, his hair flying wildly.

Tom, the cat, at that moment rising from his favourite spot near the stove, Fergus kicked at him vigorously--without hitting him.

Ed now began to stride about the office, head a little lifted, a bold look in the eye. He saw neither Fergus nor me. He was in a grand mood. I always imagined he must have felt at that moment something like Fitz-James when he met Roderick Dhu:

Come one, come all! this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I.

He did not have long to wait. We heard the old Captain on the steps, thumping his cane, clearing his throat. I shall never forget how he looked when he came in at the door, his tall, soldierly figure, the long, shabby black coat, the thick silvery hair under the broad-brimmed hat, the beaming eye of him. Ever since the publication of his editorial on William J. Bryan, the Captain had been in great spirits.

"Nort!" he called, as he set down his cane.

No answer.

"Where's Nort?" he boomed. "Fergus, where's Nort? I want to show him my editorial on Theodore Roosevelt."

Ominous silence.

The old Captain looked up and about him. Fergus was busy at the cases.

"Where's Nort?" asked the old Captain sharply, this time directing his question at Ed Smith.

"I've fired him," said Ed. "Got to cut down expenses."

"You--fired--Nort?"

The old Captain's voice sounded as though it came from the bottom of a well.

"Yes," said Ed crisply, "I hired him--and now I've fired him."

Ed was still much in the mood of Fitz-James. He had always been somewhat contemptuous of the Captain. He not only regarded him as an old fogy, a vain old fogy, but as a dead weight upon the _Star_. Ed thought his editorials worse than nothing at all, and had resolved to get rid of the Captain at the first opportunity. It was too bad, of course, but--business is business.

When the Captain did not reply, Ed observed at large:

"The trouble with this office is that you all seem to think we are printing a newspaper for our health."

"Sold more extra copies of the _Star_ last week than ever before," said Fergus.

"Yes," responded Ed bitterly, "and left out reading notices that would have brought in more than all your extras put together. That electric light announcement, and the notice of d.i.c.k McCullum's candidacy----"

At this the old Captain broke in with ominous deliberation.

"I want to know," said he, "if it is now the policy of this newspaper to support Democrats for money, and fool the people of Hempfield with paid news about greedy corporations?"

"It's _my_ policy," responded Ed, "to tap shoes for anybody that's got the price. I'm a practical man."

I never can hope to do justice by the scene which followed. The old Captain strode a step nearer and rested one hand on the corner of Ed Smith's desk, a majestic figure of wrath.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Practical!" he explained. "You are a blackguard, sir!

You are a scoundrel, sir!"]