“You’re a nice boy,” said Miss Letitia Pritchard. (“And all the nicer,” she thought to herself, “for being so much a boy.”) “Yes; she’d be glad to have you have it, I think.” “She did n’t say so?” Sympathy for the eagerness of his tone softened the old maid’s smile. “No. She did n’t say so. She did n’t say anything about you, except that you’d come to see me. For a time I thought her prophecy was wrong.” “I’d like to come again.” “As often as you like,” she said kindly. “You’re one of three people she talked to me about, the night before she left. The others were Buddy--she is going to help him get an education when the time comes--and Eli Wade.” From day to day Jeremy had postponed the dreaded confessional visit to the Boot & Shoe Surgeon. “You’ve reminded me of an errand, Miss Pritchard,” he said. Bidding her good-bye, he went direct to the Infirmary. The old practitioner sat hunched over a pair of white buckskins. He lifted a mild, but questioning face to Jeremy. “Come in, Mr. Robson,” said he. “It’s quite some time sence you was here.” “I was ashamed to come,” blurted Jeremy.. “Shucks! Don’t say that. You can’t be responsible for what they order you to write. That’s a reporter’s job.” “Who says so?” “Nick Milliken. He says any reporter ’d have to do the same.” This was a bitter flavoring to the dose. “That is n’t so,” replied Jeremy quietly. “I need n’t have written it; not that way. I need n’t have written it at all.” The Boot & Shoe Surgeon set down the subject upon which he was operating. “I don’t understand,” he said, puzzled and despondent. “Did you want to do it?” “That is n’t the question. I did n’t have to do it. If necessary I could have resigned.” The old man’s face cleared up. “Quit your job? That’d ’a’ been foolish. There was n’t any call for you to do that.” “Anyhow I’m mighty sorry I ever touched the story. And if I’d known what it was going to do to you”--The old man flinched involuntarily at this reference to the dead glories of his School Board incumbency--“I’d never have touched it in the world.” “Sure you would! You’d do it again. To-morrow if the orders came.” Jem whirled to meet the malevolent smile of Nicholas Milliken, the Socialist, standing in the doorway. “I told you not to blame this young feller,” the newcomer bade Eli Wade. “He can’t help it. He’s only a louse-souled ratchet in the machinery of the capitalistic press.” Obviously much pleased with this rich metaphor, Mr. Milliken entered and seated himself. “Well, I knew he wouldn’t do it to me a-purpose,” said Eli Wade. Jeremy Robson felt sick; too sick even to be incensed at Milliken who proceeded: