And there he sat unmoving, until he heard the rumble of the trucks in the street below and knew that the first edition was on its way to the world. Then he went out. From his office he went down to the sub-basement, where the presses ground spruce forests into newspapers. For a little while he stood watching the great machines with the virgin white rolling smoothly through them like threads in a loom. He had never lost his fascination for this alchemy of power, and now, at his darkest hour, the wonder of it filled him as never before, and the roaring song seemed the sweetest sound he had ever heard. He was buried in his dream and the man in overalls who approached him seemed but a corporeal manifestation of an idea. When he spoke it was not to a man, but to a wizard who bore the keys of truth. His soul whispered to the soul of the machines. His words stumbled far behind. "What a marvel! What power! What magic! What possibilities unthought of ... oh, the press...." But it was only a pressman, rather more than usually tired, who answered. "Yes, she's a pretty good old girl. But say, you oughta see the new tubular duplex they're gettin' out! It's got this skinned a mile. Why say...." Good's revery faded. Reality obtruded. This poor Prometheus, dabbling boastfully with the fire of the gods--ah, well ... who that read _The Dispatch_ on the morrow, with his toast and coffee, would know the magic, the wonder, the poetry in his hands? Would it be ought but a newspaper to a single one? Blind world! "What drives the presses?" he asked dreamily. "Well, this one has a G. E. polyphase, monitor control, with ..." began the pressman. But the words fell on empty air. The other man had gone. CHAPTER XI "TEARS ... AND THEN ICE" The next afternoon Good got together an account of his stewardship and went to see Judith, who was at Braeburn. He took the four o'clock train. Several stations out, a roughly dressed man entered the car and took the seat next to him. Presently he asked for a match, and with that as an opening, requested what, with delicate euphemism, he characterised as a "loan" of a pipeful of tobacco. "When were you discharged?" asked Good quietly, as he handed over his pouch. The man changed colour and seemed to shrink visibly into the corner of his seat. "Who the ... I haven't been discharged," he stammered. "Deserter, then?" "I don't get ye." "What's the use of stalling," said Good. "I've served myself." The man looked over his shoulder furtively. "How did ye know?" he whispered. "It takes a long time to lose that set to your shoulders, my friend." "Well--what ye goin' to do about it?" The question was put more with resignation than defiance. Good raised his eyebrows. "Do about it? Why--what is there to do?" "There's a bounty up," muttered the deserter savagely. "Of course--but what of it?"