He opened the paper. There was his story, occupying all of page three that wasn't given up to advertisements. This was better than working. Besides, he ought to go over it. He settled down to it. 3 The sound that caused Humphrey to start up in surprise was the first outbreak of profanity he had ever heard from the lips of Henry Calverly. Henry was sitting up stiffly, holding last week's _Voice_ with hands that distinctly trembled. When Humphrey first looked, he was white, but after a moment the colour began flowing back to his face and continued flowing until his face was red. His lips were clamped tight, as if the small verbal explosion that had just passed them had proved even more startling to himself than to Humphrey. 'What is it?' asked the editor. Henry stared at the outspread paper. 'This!' he got out. 'This--this!' 'What's the matter, Hen?' 'Don't you _know?_' 'Oh, your picnic story! Yes--but--what on earth is the matter with you?' 'You _know_, Hump! You never told me!' 'You mean the cuts?' 'Oh--yes!' This 'Oh' was a moan of anguish. 'Good heavens, Hen--you didn't for a minute think we could print it as you wrote it?' Henry's facial muscles moved, but he got no words out. Humphrey, touched, went on. 'I don't mind telling you--between ourselves--that the thing as you wrote it, every word, is the best bit of descriptive writing I've seen this year. But you wrote the real story, boy. You painted the whole Simpson Street bunch as they are--every wart. It's a savage picture. Why, we'd have dropped seventy per cent, of our advertising between Saturday and Monday! And the queer little picture of Charlie Waterhouse out behind the lemonade stand---- Why, boy, that's enough to bust open the town! With Bob McGibbon gunning for Charlie and demanding an accounting of the town money! Gee!' Henry seemed hardly to hear this. 'Who--who re-wrote it?' 'I did some. The old man polished it off himself.' 'It's ruined!' 'Of course. But it brought you a raise to twelve a week. That's something.' 'You don't understand. It was my work. And it was true. I wrote the truth.' 'That's why.' 'Then they don't want the truth?' 'Good lord--no!' Henry considered this, bent over as if to read further, twisted his flushed face as if in pain, then abruptly sprang up. 'What's become of it--the piece I wrote?' 'Well, Hen--I didn't feel that we had a right to destroy the thing. Too dam good! In a sense, it's the old man's property; in another sense, it's yours----' 'It's mine!' 'In a sense. At any rate, I took it on myself to have a copy made confidentially. Then I turned the original over to Mr Boice. He doesn't know.' 'Where's the copy?' 'Here in my desk.' 'Give it to me!' 'Just hold your horses a minute, Hen----' 'You give it----' Humphrey threw up a hand, then opened a drawer. He handed over the typewritten manuscript. 'Who made this?' 'Gertie Wombast. I warned her to keep her mouth shut.' 'How much did it cost?'