The little man did not hesitate. "I see. Well, Mr. Wynrod, I am Mr. Burdick--Philemon P. Burdick. Possibly you've heard of me?" He paused, and when there was no response, proceeded, apparently neither surprised nor disappointed. "Evidently you have not. However, that is immaterial quite immaterial. The purpose of my call is not to acquaint you with myself, but with my work." He paused again. "Yes?" "I have come, sir, to seek your assistance--the assistance of your excellent publication, I should say." Roger stirred a trifle uneasily, and Mr. Burdick, the worried expression in his eyes deepening, hurried on, as if fearful of interruption. "First I wish to congratulate you upon _The Dispatch_. It is doing a noble work. The community owes you a debt of gratitude, sir, a very great debt." "Thank you," murmured the young man at the desk. "But there is one thing--a little thing, and yet a great thing--which you have left undone. It is my purpose now to ascertain your position in the matter." "Yes?" Roger looked puzzled. "If you knew me better you would know that I am very deeply interested in what is rather unfortunately called the single-tax. Now..." Again Roger stirred, but this time Mr. Burdick, his eyes shining with zeal, and little drops of perspiration standing out all over his forehead, appeared not to notice the fact. He continued as if he were conscious of no interruption. "... the theory of the single-tax is so absolutely in accord with common sense that one needs only to become familiar with it to become enthusiastic. All that is necessary to make the single, or land tax, an accomplished fact, and to bring about immediately the complete abolition of poverty, sir, is publicity. But there's the rub--" He halted a moment to mop his glistening brow. His sincerity was indisputable, but his countenance was so incongruously droll that even Good, sitting quietly in the shadow, and not feeling at all like laughter, found it difficult to repress a smile. "Yes, sir," continued Mr. Burdick, "there's the rub. We need publicity. But most avenues, I regret to say, are closed to us. Most mediums are afraid of us. They look upon us as dangerous radicals. Of course that's absurd. Look at me--do _I_ look like a dangerous radical?" It would have required a bigot indeed to so characterise the stout little gentleman who looked as if harsh words would bring tears to his eyes. Roger made a sound in his throat which was meant to signify derision at the thought, but which, to Good, sounded suspiciously like an abortive chuckle. "Yes, it is absurd. But the fact remains. Most newspapers are unwilling to advance the cause. Instead of getting down on their knees to the memory of Henry George, they deride it--yes, sir, they deride it!" Roger tried to look his horror, and Mr. Burdick went on vigorously.