At the Sunbury station, Henry drew a little red book from his pocket, knit his brows, and said:-- 'I owe you for those car fares. Two; wasn't it? Or three?' 'Oh, shucks! Don't think of that!' 'Was it two or three?' 'Well--if you really--two.' Henry gave him a dime. Then entered the item in the small book. 'What's that?' asked McGibbon. 'Keep accounts?' 'Oh, yes,' Henry replied; 'I'm very careful about money.' 'It's a good way to be,' said McGibbon. The _Gleaner_ office was over Hemple's meat-market on Simpson Street, up a long flight of stairs. Here they paused. 'Come up,' said McGibbon jovially, 'and pick out the place for your desk.' 'No,' said Henry; 'not now. Got to hurry. But I'll be right over.' He had to hurry, because it was nearly five o'clock, and Mr Boice might be gone. And it seemed to Henry to be important that he should have the cheque still in his pocket at the moment. His eyes were burning again. And his brain was racing. 'Say!' he cried abruptly. 'Look here! Miss Dittenhoefer----' Their eyes met. I think McGibbon, for the first time, really felt the emotional power that was unquestionably in Henry. His own quick eyes now took on some of that fire. 'Great!' he answered. And would have talked on, but Henry had already torn away, almost running. He rushed past the _Gleaner_ office without a glance. It suddenly didn't matter whether Mr Boice had gone or not. Henry was a firebrand now. He would unhesitatingly trail the man to his home, to the Sunbury Club, to Charlie Waterhouse's, even to Mr Weston's. The Power was on him! Mr Boice had not gone. Even twenty minutes later, when Henry came into the office, he was still at his desk. Over it, between the dusty pile of the _Congressional Record_ and the heap of ancient zinc etchings, his thick gray hair could be seen. Henry entered, head erect, tread firm, marched in through the gate in the railing to his table, rummaged through the heaps of old exchanges, proofs, hand-bills, and programmes for a book that was there, and certain other little personal possessions. The two pencils and one penholder were his. Also, a small glass inkstand. He gathered these up, made a parcel in a newspaper. He felt Humphrey's eyes on him. He heard old Boice move. Then came the husky voice. 'Henry!' He went on tying the parcel. 'Henry--come here!' He turned to his friend. 'Gotta do it, Hump. Tell you later.' Then he moved deliberately to the desk out front, rested an elbow on it, looked down at the bulky, motionless figure sitting there. 'Where've you been?' asked Mr Boice. 'Been attending to my own affairs.' 'How do you expect your work to be done? The fiftieth anniversary of----' 'I haven't any work here.' 'Oh, you haven't?'