"Low prize-fighters! No, no! The Kid is as decent a little chap as you'd meet anywhere. And right up in the championship class, too! He's matched against Eddie Wood at this very moment. And Mr. Waterman will support me in my statement that a victory over Eddie Wood means that he gets a cast-iron claim to meet Jimmy Garvin for the championship." "It is abominable," burst forth Mr. Renshaw. "It is disgraceful. The paper is ruined." "You keep saying that. It really isn't so. The returns are excellent. Prosperity beams on us like a sun. The proprietor is more than satisfied." "Indeed!" said Mr. Renshaw sardonically. "Sure," said John. Mr. Renshaw laughed an acid laugh. "You may not know it," he said, "but Mr. Scobell is in New York at this very moment. We arrived together yesterday on the _Mauretania_. I was spending my vacation in England when I happened to see the copy of the paper. I instantly communicated with Mr. Scobell, who was at Mervo, an island in the Mediterranean--" "I seem to know the name--" "--and received in reply a long cable desiring me to return to New York immediately. I sailed on the _Mauretania_, and found that he was one of the passengers. He was extremely agitated, let me tell you. So that your impudent assertion that the proprietor is pleased--" John raised his eyebrows. "I don't quite understand," he said. "From what you say, one would almost imagine that you thought Mr. Scobell was the proprietor of this paper." Mr. Renshaw stared. Everyone stared, except Mr. Jarvis, who, since the readings from the Kid's reminiscences had ceased, had lost interest in the proceedings, and was now entertaining the cats with a ball of paper tied to a string. "Thought that Mr. Scobell--?" repeated Mr. Renshaw. "Who is, if he is not?" "I am," said John. There was a moment's absolute silence. "You!" cried Mr. Renshaw. "You!" exclaimed Mr. Waterman, Mr. Asher, and the Reverend Edwin T. Philpotts. "Sure thing," said John. Mr. Renshaw groped for a chair, and sat down. "Am I going mad?" he demanded feebly. "Do I understand you to say that you own this paper?" "I do." "Since when?" "Roughly speaking, about three days." Among his audience (still excepting Mr. Jarvis, who was tickling one of the cats and whistling a plaintive melody) there was a tendency toward awkward silence. To start assailing a seeming nonentity and then to discover he is the proprietor of the paper to which you wish to contribute is like kicking an apparently empty hat and finding your rich uncle inside it. Mr. Renshaw in particular was disturbed. Editorships of the kind to which he aspired are not easy to get. If he were to be removed from _Peaceful Moments_ he would find it hard to place himself anywhere else. Editors, like manuscripts, are rejected from want of space.