He stood for a time looking at the mess; everything he owned, strewed about on chairs, table and floor. Everything where it had fallen. He considered finishing unpacking the suit-case. Pushed it with his foot. 'Just have to get at these things,' he muttered aloud. 'Make a job of it. Do it the first thing to-morrow, before I go to the office.' Then he dug out the box of books that stood beside the bed, the volume entitled _Will Power and Self Mastery_. He sat on the bed for an hour, reading one or another of the vehemently pithy sentences, then gazing at the wall, knitting his brows, and mumbling the words over and over until the small meaning they had ever possessed was lost. 6 He came almost stealthily into the office of _The Weekly Voice of Sunbury_ on the Monday morning. He had not fallen really asleep until the small hours. When he awoke, Humphrey was long gone and the breakfast things stood waiting on the centre table. And there they were now. He hadn't so much as rinsed them in the sink. Humphrey sat behind his roll-top desk, back of the railing. Old Mr Boice, the proprietor, was at his own desk, out in front. At the first glimpse of his massive head and shoulders with the heavy white whiskers falling down on his shirt front, Henry, hesitating on the sill, gave a little quick sigh of relief. He let himself, moving with the self-consciousness that somewhat resembled dignity, through the gate in the railing and took his chair at the inkstained pine table that served him for a desk. He felt Humphrey's eyes on him, and said 'Goodmorning!' stiffly, without looking round. He looked through the papers on the table for he knew not what; snatched at a heap of copy paper, bit his pencil and made a business of writing nothing whatever. At eleven Mr Boice, who was also postmaster, lumbered out and along Simpson Street toward the post office. Henry, discovering himself alone with Humphrey, rushed, muttering, to the press room and engaged Jim Smith, the foreman, in talk which apparently made it necessary for that blonde little man, whose bare forearms were elaborately tattooed and who chewed tobacco, to come in, sit on Henry's table, and talk further. Noon came. Humphrey pushed back his chair, tapped on the edge of his desk, and thoughtfully wrinkled his long face. The natural thing was for Henry to come along with him for lunch at Stanley's. He didn't mind for himself. It was quite as pleasant to eat alone. In the present circumstances, more pleasant. It was awkward. He got up; stood a moment. He could feel the boy there, bending over proofs of the programmes for the Commencement 'recital' of the Music School, pencil poised, motionless, almost inert. Suddenly Henry muttered again, sprang up, rushed to the press room, proof in hand; and Humphrey went to lunch alone.