Now, if they had but known it, they had been wronging Tilbury all the time. Tilbury had kept faith, kept it to the letter; he was dead, he had died to schedule. He was dead more than four days now and used to it; entirely dead, perfectly dead, as dead as any other new person in the cemetery; dead in abundant time to get into that week's _Sagamore_, too, and only shut out by an accident; an accident which could not happen to a metropolitan journal, but which happens easily to a poor little village rag like the _Sagamore_. On this occasion, just as the editorial page was being locked up, a gratis quart of strawberry ice-water arrived from Hostetter's Ladies and Gents Ice-Cream Parlors, and the stickful of rather chilly regret over Tilbury's translation got crowded out to make room for the editor's frantic gratitude. On its way to the standing-galley Tilbury's notice got pied. Otherwise it would have gone into some future edition, for _weekly Sagamores_ do not waste “live” matter, and in their galleys “live” matter is immortal, unless a pi accident intervenes. But a thing that gets pied is dead, and for such there is no resurrection; its chance of seeing print is gone, forever and ever. And so, let Tilbury like it or not, let him rave in his grave to his fill, no matter--no mention of his death would ever see the light in the _Weekly Sagamore_. CHAPTER IV Five weeks drifted tediously along. The _Sagamore _arrived regularly on the Saturdays, but never once contained a mention of Tilbury Foster. Sally's patience broke down at this point, and he said, resentfully: “Damn his livers, he's immortal!” Aleck give him a very severe rebuke, and added with icy solemnity: “How would you feel if you were suddenly cut off just after such an awful remark had escaped out of you?” Without sufficient reflection Sally responded: “I'd feel I was lucky I hadn't got caught with it _in_ me.” Pride had forced him to say something, and as he could not think of any rational thing to say he flung that out. Then he stole a base--as he called it--that is, slipped from the presence, to keep from being brayed in his wife's discussion-mortar. Six months came and went. The _Sagamore _was still silent about Tilbury. Meantime, Sally had several times thrown out a feeler--that is, a hint that he would like to know. Aleck had ignored the hints. Sally now resolved to brace up and risk a frontal attack. So he squarely proposed to disguise himself and go to Tilbury's village and surreptitiously find out as to the prospects. Aleck put her foot on the dangerous project with energy and decision. She said: “What can you be thinking of? You do keep my hands full! You have to be watched all the time, like a little child, to keep you from walking into the fire. You'll stay right where you are!” “Why, Aleck, I could do it and not be found out--I'm certain of it.” “Sally Foster, don't you know you would have to inquire around?”