"This labor-trouble business," said the reporter, with a wink for him alone. "Pshaw, Pinney! You'd grow a bush for the pleasure of beating about it." Maxwell hung his hat on a hook above the table, but sat down fronting Pinney with his overcoat on; it was a well-worn overcoat, irredeemably shabby at the buttonholes. "I'd like some tea," he said to the hostess, "some English breakfast tea, if you have it; and a little toast." He rested his elbows on the table, and took his head between his hands, and pressed his fingers against his temples. "Headache?" asked Pinney, with the jocose sympathy men show one another's sufferings, as if they could be joked away. "Better take something substantial. Nothing like ham and eggs for a headache." The other unfolded his paper napkin. "Have you got anything worth while?" "Lots of public opinion and local color," said Pinney. "Have you?" "I've been half crazy with this headache. I suppose we brought most of the news with us," he suggested. "Well, I don't know about that," said Pinney. "I do. You got your tip straight from headquarters. I know all about it, Pinney, so you might as well save time, on that point, if time's an object with you. They don't seem to know anything here; but the consensus in Hatboro' is that he was running away." "The what is?" asked Pinney. "The consensus." "Anything like the United States Census?" "It isn't spelt like it." Pinney made a note of it. "I'll get a head-line out of that. I take my own wherever I find it, as George Washington said." "Your own, you thief!" said Maxwell, with sardonic amusement. "You don't know what the word means." "I can make a pretty good guess, thank you," said Pinney, putting up his book. "Do you want to trade?" Maxwell asked, after his tea came, and he had revived himself with a sip or two. "Any scoops?" asked Pinney, warily. "Anything exclusive?" "Oh, come!" said Maxwell. "No, I haven't; and neither have you. What do you make mysteries for? I've been over the whole ground, and so have you. There are no scoops in it." "I think there's a scoop if you want to work it," said Pinney, darkly. Maxwell received the vaunt with a sneer. "You ought to be a detective--in a novel." He buttered his toast and ate a little of it, like a man of small appetite and invalid digestion. "I suppose you've interviewed the family?" suggested Pinney. "No," said Maxwell, gloomily, "there are some things that even a space-man can't do." "You ought to go back on a salary," said Pinney, with compassion and superiority. "You'll ruin yourself trying to fill space, if you stick at trifles." "Such as going and asking a man's family whether they think he was burnt up in a railroad accident, and trying to make copy out of their emotions? Thank you, I prefer ruin. If that's your scoop, you're welcome to it." "They're not obliged to see you," urged Pinney. "You send in your name and--" "They shut the door in your face, if they have the presence of mind."