Henry sensed him there; flushed (for it seemed that he could not speak to any human being now) and wrestled, in painful impotence of will, with the idea of moving on. But then, through a slow moment after Mr Berger said, 'How are you, Henry!' he sensed something further; a note of good nature in the voice, a feeling that the man was smiling, a suggestion that all the genial quality had not, after all, been hardened out of life. He turned; pulled at his moustache (paper in hand), and flicked at weeds with his stick. Mr Berger _was_ smiling. He drew his hand across a sweaty brow; shook the hand; then leaned on his hatchet. 'Getting hot,' he remarked. Henry tried to reply, but found himself still inarticulate. 'Old Boice is getting after you. Plenty.' Henry winced; but felt slightly reassured when Mr Berger chuckled. All intercourse with Mr Berger was tempered, however, by the memory that Henry had been caught, within the decade, stealing fruit from the cases out front. 'He was just here. Don't mind telling you that he's trying to get McGibbon's creditors together and throw him into bankruptcy. Doesn't look as if there was enough out against him, though. Got to be five hundred. It ain't as if he had a family and was running up bills. Just living alone at the Wombasts, like he does. But old Boice is out gunning for fair. Never saw him quite like this. First it was the advertising boycott...' Henry was shifting his weight from foot to foot. 'Well,' he said now, 'I guess I'd better be getting along.' 'I was just going to say, Henry, that you've give me a good laugh. Keep on like this and you'll be famous some day.... And say! Hold on a minute! I don't know's you're in a position to do anything about it, but I was just going to say, I rather guess the old _Gleaner_ could be picked up for next to nothing right now. And there's folks here that ain't so anxious to see Boice get the market all to hisself. Not so dam anxious.... Wait a minute! I mean, I guess once McGibbon was got rid of the Old Boy'd find it wouldn't be so easy to hold this boycott together. There's folks that would break away---- Well, that's about all that was on my mind. Only I'd sorta hate to see your yarns suppressed. They're grand reading, Henry. My wife like to 'a' died over that one last week--_The Sultan of Simpson Street_.' '“Caliph!”' said Henry, with a nervous eagerness. '_The Caliph of Simpson Street_.' 'Touched up old Norton P. for fair. Made him sorer 'n a goat. My wife's literary, and she says it's worthy of Poe. And you ought to hear the people talking to-day about this new one.' '_Sinbad the Treasurer!_' said Henry quickly, fearing another misquotation: 'Yay-ah. That. Ain't had time to read it yet myself. They say it's great.' 'Well--good-bye,' said Henry, and moved stiffly away toward the corner. 'Funny!' mused the grocer,' looking after him. 'These geniuses never have any business sense. I give him a real opening there.' 6