"Sister wants two papers," said he finally. "She says, the papers with the po'try." I shall never forget the sight of Nort, head in air, marching over to the pile of extras, grandly handing two of them to our customer, and then walking triumphantly across the room and delivering the dime to Anthy. "Who was that now?" asked Nort, when the little chap went out. "That," said Anthy, "was Sophia Rhineheart's brother." Nort clapped his hand dramatically to his head. "The false Sophia!" he exclaimed; "I expected that Sophia would want at least fifty copies of the journal which has made her famous." The next incident was even more disquieting. An old man named Johnson came to put a twenty-cent advertisement in the paper "Ten Cords of Wood for Sale"--and it appeared, after an adroit question by Nort, that, although he had received that week's paper, he did not even know that we had published the Poems of Hempfield. Nort's spirits began to drop, as his face plainly showed. Like many young men who start out to set the world afire, he was finding the kindling wood rather damp. Just before noon, however, answering a telephone call, we saw his eyes brighten perceptibly. "Thank you," he was saying. "Ten, did you say? All right, you shall have them. Glad you called early before they are all gone." He put down the receiver, smiling broadly. "There," he said, "it's started!" "Humph," grunted Fergus, and Anthy, leaning back on her stool, laughed merrily. But Nort refused to be further depressed. If things did not happen of themselves in Hempfield, why he was there to make them happen. When he went out at noon he began asking everybody he met, at the hotel, at the post office, at the livery stable, whether they had seen the _Star_ that week. Nort had then been in Hempfield about four months, and the town had begun to enjoy him--rather nervously, because it was never quite certain what he would do next. In Hempfield almost everybody was working for the approval of everybody else, which no one ever attains; while Nort never seemed to care whether anybody approved him or not. "Seen the _Star_ this week?" he asked Joe Crane, the liveryman, apparently controlling his excitement with difficulty. "No," says Joe. "Why?" "It's the biggest issue we ever had. We are printing the poems of all the poets of Hempfield." Joe paused to consider a moment, while Nort looked at him earnestly. "Didn't know they was any poets in Hempfield," observed Joe finally. "Why," says Nort, "Hempfield has more poets than any town of its size in America." Now, Joe took the _Star_ as a matter of course, and advertised in it, too: JOSEPH CRANE LIVERY, FEED AND SALE STABLE but, rarely expecting to find anything in the paper but the local news, which he knew already, he had unfortunately used the Poems of Hempfield for cleaning harness.