"There is something I must tell you. You have a right to know it. It's about the paper. Will you come to see me to-morrow?" "Yes. But go now. No! Wait!" From without sounded a dull murmur pierced through with an occasional whoop, jubilant rather than threatening. "Too late," said Hal quietly. "They're coming." "I'm not afraid." "But I am--for you. Stay in this room. If they should break into the building, go up those stairs and get to the roof. They won't come there." He went into the outer room, closing the door behind him. From both directions and down a side street as well the dwellers in the slums straggled into the open space in front of the "Clarion" office. To Hal they seemed casual, purposeless; rather prankish, too, like a lot of urchins out on a lark. Several bore improvised signs, uncomplimentary to the "Clarion." They seemed surprised when they encountered the rope barrier with its warning placards. There were mutterings and queries. "No serious harm in them," opined Dr. Elliot, to whom Hal had gone to see whether he wanted anything. "Just mischief. A few rocks maybe, and then they'll go home. Look at old Mac." Opposite them, at his brilliantly lighted window desk, sat McGuire Ellis, in full view of the crowd below, conscientiously blue-penciling telegraph copy. "Hey, Mac!" yelled an acquaintance in the street. "Come down and have a drink." The associate editor lifted his head. "Don't be young," he retorted. "Go home and sleep it off." And reverted to his task. "What are we doin' here, anyway?" roared some thirster for information. Nobody answered. But, thus recalled to a purpose, the mob pressed against the ropes. "Ladies _and_ gentlemen!" A great, rounded voice boomed out above them, drawing every eye to the farthermost window where stood Dr. Surtaine, his chest swelling with ready oratory. "Hooray!" yelled the crowd. "Good Old Doc!"--"He pays the freight."--"Speech!" "Say, Doc," bawled a waggish soul, "I gotta corn, marchin' up here. Will Certina cure it?" And another burst into the final lines of a song then popular; in which he was joined by several of his fellows: "Father, he drinks Seltzer. Redoes, like hell! (_Crescendo_.) He drinks Cer-tee-nah!" "Ladies _and_ gentlemen," boomed the wily charlatan. "Unaccustomed as I am to _extempore_ speaking, I cannot let pass this opportunity to welcome you. We appreciate this testimonial of your regard for the 'Clarion.' We appreciate, also, that it is a warm night and a thirsty one. Therefore, I suggest that we all adjourn back to the Old Twelfth Ward, where, if the authorities will kindly look the other way, I shall be delighted to provide liquid refreshments for one and all in which to drink to the health and prosperity of an enlightened free press." The crowd rose to him with laughter. "Good old Sport!"--"Mine's Certina."--"Come down and make good."--"Free booze, free speech, free press!"--"You're on, Doc! You're on."