'That's probably it,' he thought. 'And it's what the boy has needed. Martha Caldwell couldn't give it to him--never in the world! He was groping to find it in that tough little Wilcox girl. It wouldn't do to tell him--no, I mustn't tell him; got to steady him down all I can--but I rather guess he's been needing a Mildred and a Corinne. These two years.' 9 Humphrey stood up then, said he was going out for half an hour, and picked up the manuscript from the living-room table as he passed. He went straight to Boice's house on Upper Chestnut Avenue. 'What has all this to do with me?' asked Mr Boice, behind closed doors in his roomy library. 'Let him write anything he likes.' Humphrey sat back; slowly turned the pages of the manuscript. 'This,' he said, 'is a real piece of writing. It's the best picture of a community outing I ever read in my life. It's vivid. The characters are so real that a stranger, after reading this, could walk up Simpson Street and call fifteen people by name. He'd know how their voices sound, what their weaknesses are, what they're really thinking about Sunday mornings in church. It is humour of the finest kind. But they won't know it on Simpson Street. They'll be sore as pups, every man. He's taken their skulls off and looked in. He's as impersonal, as cruel, as Shakespeare.' This sounded pretty highfalutin' to Mr Boice. He made a reflective sound; then remarked:-- 'You think the advertisers wouldn't like it,' 'They'd hate it. They'd fight. It would raise Ned in the town. But McGibbon wouldn't mind. Or if he didn't have the nerve to print it, any Sunday editor in Chicago would eat it alive.' 'Well, what----' Humphrey quietly interrupted. 'Little scenes, all through. Funny as Pickwick. There really is a touch of genius in it. Handles you pretty roughly. But they'd laugh. No doubt about that. All sorts of scenes--you and Charlie Waterhouse behind the lemonade stand--Bill Parker's little accident in the tug-of-war.' He read on, to himself. But he knew that Mr Boice sat up stiffly in his chair, with a grunt. He heard him rise, ponderously, and move down the room; then come back. When he spoke, Humphrey, aware of his perturbation, was moved to momentary admiration by his apparent calmness. He sounded just as usual. 'What are you getting at?' he asked. 'You want something.' 'I want you to take Hemy back at--say, twelve a week.' 'Hm. Have him re-write this?' 'No. Henry won't be able to write another word this week. He's empty. My idea is, Mr Boice, that you'll want to do the cutting yourself. When you've done that, I'll pitch in on the re-write. We can get our three columns out of it all right.' 'Hm!' 'There's one thing you may be sure of. Henry doesn't know what he's written. No idea. It's a flash of pure genius.' 'Don't know that we've got much use for a genius on the _Voice_,' grunted Mr Boice. 'He ought to go to Chicago or New York.'