He found himself, in his turn, looking Mr McGibbon over. The man was just a little seedy. He had a hand up, rubbing the back of his head under the tipped-down straw hat, and Henry noted the shiny black surface of his sleeve. He had a freckled, thinly alert face, a little pinched. His hair was straight and came down raggedly about ears and collar. Behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, small, sharp eyes, very keen, appeared to be darting this way and that, restlessly noting everything within their range of vision. 'Things going well over at the _Voice_ office?' Henry was silent. He couldn't lie. 'Not going so well, eh? That's too bad. Anything special up?' 'No,' said Henry, finding his voice untrustworthy; 'nothing special.' 'What you doing now? Anything much?' Henry shook his head. 'Taking a little walk, perhaps.' 'Why--yes.' 'Mind if I walk along with you?' 'Why--no.' They fell into step. 'Been thinking a little about you lately. Wondering if you were happy in your work over there.' Henry compressed his lips. 'Did you write the Business Men's Picnic story?' Henry was silent. 'Pretty fair job, I thought.' 'It was terrible!' 'Oh, no--not terrible. You're too hard on yourself.' 'I'm not hard on myself. It's _his_ fault. He spoiled it.' 'Who--Boice? I shouldn't wonder. He could spoil _The New York Sun_ in two days, with just a little rope.' 'He tore it all to pieces. I've got the real story here. I couldn't let you see it, of course.' McGibbon glanced down at the roll of paper. 'You like to write, don't you?' Henry nodded shortly. 'Boice won't let you do it, I suppose.' Henry shook his head. 'He wouldn't. You know, there isn't really any reason why a country paper shouldn't be interesting. Play to the subscriber, you know. Boice plays to the advertiser and the county printing. Other way takes longer, takes a little more money at first, but once you get your subscriber hooked, the advertiser has to follow. Better for the long game.' Henry was only half listening. They were crossing the Lake Shore Drive now. They stopped at the railing and looked out over the lake. Henry's thoughts were darting this way and that, searching instinctively for a weak spot in the wall of fate that had closed in on him. 'I've got a little money,' he said. McGibbon smiled. 'Well, it has its uses.' 'I haven't quite got it. I get the interest. And they'll have to give me all of it in November. The seventh. I'll be twenty-one then.' These words seemed to reassure. Henry. 'Yes; I'll be twenty-one. It's quite a little, too. Over four thousand dollars. It was my mother's.' 'It's not to be sneezed at,' said McGibbon reflectively. 'If I had four thousand right now--or one thousand, for that matter--I could make sure of turning my corner and landing the old _Gleaner_ on Easy Street. I've had a fight with that paper. Been through a few things these eight months. But I'm gaining circulation in chunks now. Six months more, and I'll nail that gang.'