Henry stared with burning eyes out of a white face. 'But my stories!' he cried. 'They go to the man that gets the paper. If we land in bankruptcy, as we doubtless shall, they will be held by the court as assets.' 'But they're mine!' A note of bewilderment that was despair was in Henry's voice. McGibbon shook his head. 'No, Hen. We're known to have them. They're in type here. You're helpless. We're both helpless. The thousand dollars you put in, too. You hold my note for that. You'll get so many cents on the dollar when the plant is sold at auction. Or if Boice buys it. He was up here just now. Offered me five hundred dollars. Think of it--five hundred for our plant, the big press and everything.' 'Wha--wha'd you say?' 'Showed him out. Laughed at him. Of course! But it was just a play. Never. Now look here, Hen, you've got a little more, haven't you? Your uncle----' Henry had reached the limits of his emotional capacity.' He was far beyond the familiar mental process known as thinking. He was sitting on the edge of his chair, knees drawn up, hands clasped tightly, temples drumming, a flush spreading down over his cheeks. But even in this condition, thoughts came. One of these--or perhaps it was just a feeling, a manifestation of a sort of instinct--was of hostility to Bob here. It. brought a touch of guilty discomfort--hostility came hard, with Henry--yet it was distinctly there. Bob was doubtless right. All his experience. And his wonderful fighting nerve. Yet somehow he wouldn't do. 'No!' said Henry. And again, 'No! Not a cent from my uncle!' McGibbon's hand still held up the paper. He brought it down now with a bang. On the desk. And sprang up, speaking louder, with quick, intense gestures. 'You don't seem to get it, Hen!' he cried. 'We're through--broke!' He glanced around at the press-room door and controlled his voice. 'No pay-roll--nothing! Nothing for the boys out there--or me--or you. I've been sitting here wondering how I can tell'em. Got to.' 'Nothing!' Henry echoed weakly, fumbling at his Little moustache--'for me?' 'Not a cent.' 'But--but----' Henry's earthly wealth at the moment was about forty cents. His rough estimate of immediate expenditures was considerable. 'Got to have money now, Hen! To-day. Before night. Can't you get hold of that fact? Even a hundred--the pay-roll's only ninety-six-fifty. If I could handle that, likely I could make a turn next week and get our paper stock in time.' Henry heard his own voice saying:-- 'But don't business men borrow----' 'Borrow! Me? In this town? They wouldn't lend me the rope to hang myself with... Hold on there, Hen--' For the young man had picked up his stick and was moving toward the door. And as he hurried out he was saving, without looking back:-- 'No... No!'