'You know'--McGibbon threw a knee up on the railing and lighted a cigar--'it takes money to make money.' 'Oh, yes--of course,' said Henry. 'A thousand dollars now on the _Gleaner_ would be worth ten thousand ten years from now.' He smoked thoughtfully. 'I've been watching you, Calverly. And if it wasn't so tough on you, I could laugh at old Boice. He's got a jewel in you, and he doesn't know it. I suppose he keeps you grinding--correcting proof, running around----' 'Oh, you've no idea!' Henry burst out. 'Everything! Just an awful grind! And now he expects me to cover all the “Society” and “Church Doings.”' 'What! How's that? Has he come down on Miss Dittenhoefer?' Henry swallowed convulsively and nodded. 'He's piling it all on me, and I won't stand for it. It ain't right! It 'ain't fair! And you bet your life he's going to hear a few things from me before this day's much older! I'm going to tell him a thing or two!' 'That's right!' said McGibbon. 'He won't respect you any the less for it.' A silence followed. Henry stood, flushed, breathing hard through set teeth, staring out at the horizon. 'I'm going to tell you something, Calverly. And it's because I feel that you and I are going to be friends. I've known about you, of course. I know you can write. You'd do a lot to make a paper readable. Which is what a paper has got to be. But now I can see that we're going to be friends. You've confided in me. I'm going to confide in you.' He paused, blew out a long, meditative arrow of smoke, then added, 'I know a little about that story you wrote.' '_You_ do!' McGibbon slowly nodded. 'But how?' 'You must remember, Calverly, that I'm not like these small-town folks around here. I've worked at this game in New York, and I know a thing or two.' 'I've been in New York,' said Henry. 'Great town! But I don't spend my time here in daydreams. I have my lines out all over town. There's mighty little going on that I don't know.' 'You seem to know a lot about Charlie Waterhouse.' McGibbon smiled like a sphinx, then said:-- 'I've nearly got him. Not quite, but nearly.' 'But I don't see how you could know about----' 'I told you I was going to confide in you. It's simple enough. Gert Wombast let her sister read it--the one that works at the library. Swore her to secrecy. And--well, I board at the Wombasts'--Look here, Calverly: you'd better let me read it.' Henry promptly surrendered it. McGibbon laid the manuscript on his knee, lighted a fresh cigar, and gazed at the lake. Henry, all nerves, was clasping and unclasping his hands. 'Of course,' he said, 'this ain't really a finished thing, you understand. It's just as I wrote it off--fast, you know--and I haven't had a chance to correct it or----' McGibbon raised his hand.