"That's what I mean! I'll go to the very gates of hell to get a good piece of news, but when it comes to general affairs the politicians, business men, and the etceteras of this town have got to understand that there's just as much reason for their coming to me as for my going to them. I'm as important as any of them." "So-ho, we're on our high horse, are we?" "You bet we are, my son! And that's where you've got to be if you want this town to respect you." "All right. She's a great nag, if you can keep your saddle. But I guess I'd better tell Kennedy you're not coming." Without rising, Billy leaned back and took up Bruce's desk telephone, and soon was talking to the prosecuting attorney. After a moment he held out the instrument to the editor. "Kennedy wants to speak with you," he said. Bruce took the 'phone. "Hello, that you Kennedy?... No, I can't come--too busy. Suppose you run over here.... Got some people there? Well, bring 'em along.... Why can't they come? Who are they?... Can't you tell me what the situation is?... All right, then; in a couple of minutes." Bruce hung up the receiver and arose. "So you're going after all?" asked Billy. "Guess I'd better," returned the editor, putting on his coat and hat. "Kennedy says something big has just broken loose. Sounds queer. Wonder what the dickens it can be." And he started out. "But how about your celebration story?" queried Billy. "Want it to go down?" Bruce looked at his watch. "Two hours till press time; I guess it can wait." And taking the story back from the boy he tossed it upon his desk. He stepped out into the local room, which showed the same kindly tolerance of dirt as did his private office. At a long table two young men sat before typewriters, and in a corner a third young man was taking the clicking dictation of a telegraph sounder. "Remember, boys, keep everything but the celebration down to bones!" Bruce called out. And with that he passed out of the office and down the stairway to the street. CHAPTER II THE BUBBLE REPUTATION Despite its thirty thousand population--"Forty thousand, and growing, sir!" loyally declared those disinterested citizens engaged in the sale of remote fields of ragweed as building lots--Westville was still but half-evolved from its earlier state of an overgrown country town. It was as yet semi-pastoral, semi-urban. Automobiles and farm wagons locked hubs in brotherly embrace upon its highways; cowhide boots and patent leather shared its sidewalks. There was a stockbroker's office that was thoroughly metropolitan in the facilities it afforded the elite for relieving themselves of the tribulation of riches; and adjoining it was Simpson Brothers & Company, wherein hick'ry-shirted gentlemen bartered for threshing machines, hayrakes, axle grease, and such like baubles of Arcadian pastime.