It was a decade or more since the 'editor' of the Voice had done any actual work. Every day he dropped quiet suggestions, whispered a word of guidance to this or that lieutenant, and listened to assorted ideas and opinions. He was a power in the village, no doubt about that. But to compose and write out three columns of his own paper was hopelessly beyond him. It called for youth, or for the long habit of a country hack. The deep permanent grooves in his mind were channels for another sort of thinking. For an hour he sat there. Gradually Humphrey became aware of him. It was odd anyway that he should be here. He seldom returned in the afternoon. Finally he looked over at the younger man, and made sounds. Humphrey raised his head; removed his pipe. 'Guess you better fix up a little account of the Business Men's Picnic, Weaver,' he remarked. 'Henry's doing that.' Mr Boice's massive head moved slowly, sidewise. 'No,' he said, 'he won't be doing it.' Humphrey leaned back in his chair. His face wrinkled reflectively; his brows knotted. He held up his pipe; rubbed the worn cob with the palm of his hand. Mr Boice got up and moved toward the door. 'I've let Henry go,' he said. Humphrey went on rubbing his pipe; squinting at it. Mr Boice paused in the door; looked back. 'I'll ask you to attend to it, Weaver.' Humphrey shook his head. Mr Boice stood looking at him. 'No,' said Humphrey. 'Afraid I can't help you out.' Mr Boice stood motionless. There was no expression on his face, but Humphrey knew what the steady look meant. He added:-- 'I wasn't there.' Still Mr Boice stood. Humphrey took a fresh galley proof from the hook and fell to work at it. After a little Mr Boice moved back to his desk and creaked down into his chair. Again he reached for the copy paper. Humphrey, in a merciful moment when he was leaving for the day, thought of suggesting that Murray Johnston, local man for the City Press Association, might be called on in the emergency. He had been at the picnic. He could write the story easily enough, if he could spare the time. A faint smile flitted across his face at the reflection that it would cost old Boice five or six times what he was usually willing to pay in the _Voice_. But Mr Boice, bending over the desk, a pencil gripped in his fingers, a sentence or two written and crossed out on the top sheet of copy paper, did not so much as lift his eyes. And Humphrey went on out. 8 Humphrey let himself into Mrs Henderson's front hall, closed the screen door gently behind him, and looked about the dim interior. There seemed to be no one in the living-room. The girls were in the kitchen, doubtless, getting supper. Mildred had faithfully promised not to bother cooking anything hot. He hung up his hat. Then he saw a feminine figure up the stairs, curled on the top-step, against the wall. It was Corinne. She was pressing her finger to her lips and shaking her head.