Charlie began reading _Sinbad the Treasurer_ as he walked. He finished it standing on the turf by the sidewalk, ignoring passing acquaintances, nervously biting and mouthing a cigar that had gone out. In the same condition he read bits of it again. He stood for a while, wavering; then went back home, and spoke roughly to Mrs Waterhouse when she asked him why. He hid the paper from her, to no particular purpose. He didn't appear at the town hall all day, but caught a trolley into Chicago and went to a dime museum. Later in the day he was seen by two venturesome youths sitting alone in the rear of a stage box at Sam T. Jack's. Norton P. Boice became aware of the sensation on his familiar way to the _Voice_ office. Humphrey, at his own editorial desk behind the railing, waited, apparently buried in galley proofs, for the explosion. He had caught it all after leaving Henry at Stanley's door, and had prowled a bit, taking it in. But Mr Boice simply made little sounds--'Hmm!' and 'mmp!' and 'Hmm!' again. Then, slowly lifting his ponderous figure, the upper half of his face expressionless as always above his long yellowish-white beard, went out. For an hour he was shut up with Mr Weston in the director's room at the bank; his huge bulk disposed in an armchair; little, low-voiced, neatly bearded Mr Weston standing by the mantel. It came down to this:-- 'Could throw him into bankruptcy. He must be about broke.' Thus Boice. 'We'd get the stories that way. Suppress 'em.' The old gentleman was still wincing from the artlessly subtle stabs he had suffered a week back in _The Caliph of Simpson Street_. Everybody within four miles of the postoffice knew who the Caliph was. He had caught people hiding their smiles. Mentally he was considering a new drawn head for the _Voice_, with the phrase 'And _The Weekly Gleaner_' neatly printed just below. There never had been room for two papers in Sunbury anyway. Mr Weston was shaking his head. 'May as well sit tight, Nort. What harm's to be done, is done already. He'll have to come down. We'll get him then.' 'You haven't got any of his paper here, have you?' 'There was one note. I called that some time ago.' 'Wha'd he do?' 'Paid it. He seems still to have a little something. But he can't last. Not without advertising.' 'But he's selling his paper fast. If he can keep that up maybe he'll begin to pick up a little along the street.' Mr Weston was still shaking his head. 'Better wait, Nort.' 'No, I'll offer him a few hundred. The old _Gleaner_ plant's worth something.' 'Of course, there's no harm in that.' So Mr Boice crossed the street to Hemple's market and laboriously lifted his great body up the stairway beside it to the quarters of the _Gleaner_ upstairs, where a coatless, rumpled, rather wild-eyed McGibbon listened to him and then, with suspiciously, alert and smiling politeness, showed him out and down again. 4