Once again on this eventful day that conservative member of the village triumvirate found himself forced to gaze at the dressy if now slightly rumpled youth with a silly little moustache that he couldn't seem to let go of, and the thin bamboo stick with a crook at the end. The youth whose time was so valuable that he couldn't arrange to do his work. And once again irritation stirred behind the spotted, rounded-out vest and the thick, wavy, yellowish-white whiskers. He sat back in his swivel chair; looked at Henry with lustreless eyes; made sounds. 'Mr Boice,' said Henry, 'I--I want to speak with you. It's--it's this way. I don't feel that you're doing quite the right thing by me.' Another sound from the editor-postmaster. Then silence. 'You gave me to understand that I'd get better pay if I suited. Well, the way you're doing it, I don't even get as much. It ain't right! It ain't square! Now--well--you see, I've about come to the conclusion that if the work I do ain't worth ten a week--well----' It is to be remembered of Norton P. Boice that he was a village politician of something like forty years' experience. As such he put no trust whatever in words. Once to-day he had raised his voice, and the fact was disturbing. He had weathered a thousand little storms by keeping his mouth shut, sitting tight. He never criticised or quarrelled. He disbelieved utterly in emotions of any sort. He hadn't written a letter in twenty-odd years. And he was not likely to lose his temper again this day--week--or month. Henry didn't dream that at this moment he was profoundly angry. Though Henry was too full of himself to observe the other party to the controversy. Mr Boice clasped his hands on his stomach and sat still. Henry chafed. After a time Mr Boice asked, 'Have you done the story of the Business Men's Picnic?' Henry shook his head. 'Better get it done, hadn't you?' Henry shook his head again. Mr Boice continued to sit--motionless, expressionless. His thoughts ran to this effect:--The article on the picnic was by far the most important matter of the whole summer. Every advertiser on Simpson Street looked for whole paragraphs about himself and his family. Henry was supposed to cover it. He had been there. It would be by no means easy, now, to work up a proper story from any other quarter. 'Suppose,' he remarked, 'you go ahead and get the story in. Then we can have a little talk if you like. I'm rather busy this afternoon.' He tried to say it ingratiatingly, but it sounded like all other sounds that passed his lips--colourless, casual. Henry stood up very stiff; drew in a deep breath or two; His fingers tightened about his stick. His colour rose. He leaned over; rested a hand on the corner of the desk.