The prime purpose of the Board was to locate an outside man in the grain business here, backed up by a stronger purpose of one of its members to sell an old canning factory building to be converted into an elevator:—plus one up-and-coming young doctor who was crying for an opposition paper, with political slant. The business was delegated to a committee of four—the canning factory owner, a relatively new doctor, and two other men. At this time doctors, after petty politicians, were the bane of the local papers. It was considered by the profession unethical for them to advertise—yet, too often, they craved top newspaper recognition when only minor mention or none at all was due. The case in hand was the third, with as many different doctors, with which I had to contend—in every instance for what the paper failed to say about them, or what it did say about some other doctor. But I want to say that our old reliables, Dr. J. W. Graham, and Dr. Thomas Milam, did not fall into this category. However, the cases I had t o deal with were really mild — mild indeed to the one which threatened to do mayhem, or worse, to the whole office force, when I was printer on T. J. Wolfley’s Spectator. A doctor who had come down from Granada and located in Wetmore, sent word that he was going to pay us a visit at 10 o’clock of a Saturday morning for the express purpose of cleaning out the whole office. The offending item was a week old, and the demanded retraction in Friday’s paper had, as viewed by the Doctor, added “insult to injury.” Theodore Wolf ley really enjoyed a scrap—and managed to have something on tap nearly all the time. He represented one faction of the local Republicans, and Moulton DeForest, when not a pronounced Prohibitionist, essayed to control another faction. The Doctor, a husky farm-bred boy in the Granada neighborhood, now on honored citizen of Wetmore, was a rantankerous Republican allied with the De-Forest faction—until he switched to the Populist party without losing any part of his rantankerous attributes. Anticipating in advance the proposed call from the Doctor, Wolfley procured a revolver, and he and I practiced shooting the thing in the office, from a distance of ten feet, with target pinned on the leg of the imposing stone. He never hit the target once, but he broke a window pane all of two feet above the stone. He always shut his eyes and flinched before pulling the trigger. I was supposed to be stationed at the imposing stone, in pretense of performing my regular duties, with iron side-stick—a lethal weapon when expertly wielded—in readiness for my part of the defense, if, and when, the Doctor might extend his belligerence thus far.