“I rather liked yesterday’s issue,” he said, “and they tell me that the next two numbers are practically made up.” “You’ve been to the office then?” “No. I called up from home at breakfast. That’s how I heard you were here. Just off ship last night----” “Bert Ames got in three weeks ago. You were a long time coming----” “My turn didn’t come--everybody dying to get home since the racket stopped.” “Your paper’s alive, Dicky--that’s the best that can be said.” “My paper----” “I’m looking for you to buy the rest. My equity is on the market. _The Public Square_ is alive, but it’s not my fault.” “Whose?” “Didn’t they tell you that ‘The Weekly’ was away?” Dicky looked bewildered. A glint of the old humor had come back to John Higgins’ eyes, as he added: “The woman thou gavest me.” “You mean about Pidge Musser being called to Los Angeles?” “Suddenly discovered she had a father who couldn’t be denied. Ripped out of here on the fifth and left a hole in every department.... They say I’m done with the desk for a time. I knew it without them telling me. I’d have had to wire her to-day or to-morrow to come back, if you hadn’t turned up.” Dicky’s thoughts now became busy adjusting to the fact that John Higgins wasn’t returning to the desk at once. “I know when I’m done,” the old man repeated. “It’s taken nearly sixty years, but I know. You’ve heard about the serpent that stings itself to death in captivity?” “It’s just the chafing of the muzzle, John. You’re not stinging yourself to death----” “We all have our little code, Dicky, and I haven’t been true to mine. Your paper’s alive, in spite of what I would have done. My code pulled me the other way--against you--but that little thing stood by your interests. You’ve got her to thank, not me.” “Tell me----” “They were doing things in this country that I knew about----” the old man shut his eyes, as if in nausea--“but she kept me still. Then they arrested an old friend of mine--man I’ve known for thirty years--man who loves his country _all the time_--as I do not--and they arrested him. One Sunday morning I wrote my little say about it all, and as I wrote, I heard them singing ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee,’ in a church down the block from my rooms. That’s what I called the article. I was sober. I wrote for all days, and every year I had lived went into it--all I was. I was willing to throw you--a little matter of money which you could afford. I was throwing myself, but I was pleased enough with the story to show it to her Monday morning, instead of sending it down to the composing room.” The narrative halted for several seconds. Dicky moved around the bed to rest the old man’s eyes.