Dr. Marsh was in his surgery, skimming the contents of a medical journal in search of the newer methods of treatment. Now and again he glanced from the printed pages out of his window at the asphalt path leading from the gate to his front door, not so much because he expected a patient as from mere habit. It was an off day in Grey Town, and his surprise was keen when he chanced to see, not one, but three men approaching the house.

It had become a custom with him to scan a patient and diagnose a complaint at long range, and to subsequently confirm or disprove his first opinion more intimately at closer quarters. Being a shrewd and observant man, he not infrequently hit a bull's-eye at the first shot. Scrutinising the three who were coming up the path, he muttered:

"Cairns, Desmond O'Connor, and the ugliest beggar I ever saw! But which is the patient? Cairns has dyspepsia, I swear; Desmond could not be sick if he tried; the ugly beggar suffers from nothing worse than his face, and that is a chronic condition."

Commenting half-audibly in this manner, he hastened to the door and cried:

"Are you all patients?"

Cairns shook his head sorrowfully. "No such luck, doctor! Beyond a little discomfort after meals, we are hopelessly sound."

"Are you a deputation, then, come to ask me to represent you in the Federal Parliament?" asked the doctor.

"It may come to that," said Cairns. "If Burrows does not speedily do something for Grey Town, we shall need a new member. May I introduce Mr. Quirk, a new resident and a live citizen?"

Denis Quirk and the doctor shook hands, each regarding the other curiously the while.

"An insurance agent," said the doctor in the half-audible tone he sometimes adopted.

To this the others replied with a laugh.

"No fear, doctor!" cried Cairns. "Am I the man to take a mean advantage of you? We have come here to consult you—not professionally, but as one who knows this district, alive and dead."

"None better," said Dr. Marsh.

They followed him into a cosy and orderly surgery, and sat down at his bidding. For his part, the doctor leaned up against the mantelpiece, one elbow resting on the marble and one arm free.

"Now, then, what is it?" he asked.

"We are contemplating a venture," said Denis Quirk—"a newspaper in opposition to 'The Observer.'"

Dr. Marsh shook his head emphatically, frowning the while at Denis Quirk.

"Mental, decidedly mental," he growled. "You have delusions."

Denis Quirk laughed uproariously at this remark. The doctor was a man after his own heart.

"You don't give it a chance?" he asked.

"Not a thousand to one hope! What do we want with two papers?"

"Precisely!" cried Denis Quirk. "But supposing we were to shoulder 'The Observer' out of Grey Town?"

"Is Cairns a mutineer?" asked the doctor.

"I am a cast-off. Old Ebenezer Brown has given me marching orders, and I am looking for a new master," replied Cairns.

Dr. Marsh's face brightened, for he had a consuming hatred for the owner of 'The Observer.' Even the faintest hope of wounding Ebenezer Brown was a reason for joy to him.

"It might be done?" he said. "Are you a newspaper man?" he asked Denis Quirk.

"In the past, and, I hope, in the future. I am tempted to risk a battle with 'The Observer.' With Cairns and O'Connor, myself, and one or two others—yourself, for instance, doctor—we might make the old rag gallop, possibly even beat it, eh?"

"Stop a minute. Do any of you drink?" asked the doctor.

The other men shook their heads.

"Too early," said Cairns. "If we started now, where would we end?"

"Very well, then. Let me have some details before I decide. Who is to finance the paper?"

"I shall do that, with your help, if you like, leaving the public to pay us principal and interest when we have destroyed Ebenezer Brown and his organ," said Denis Quirk.

"Cairns will be editor, I suppose?" asked the doctor.

"Cairns editor, O'Connor a reporter, myself manager, and Tim O'Neill printer's devil."

"Tim O'Neill!" laughed the doctor. "Where did you discover that rapscallion? Molly Healy introduced you to him, I swear."

"I forgot Molly Healy in mentioning the staff. She is to write a series of articles dealing with the seamy side of Grey Town life and her methods of reforming the riff-raff. Yes; it was she who brought Tim to me. 'Here you are!' she cried. 'Tis the wickedest boy in Grey Town. Make him something useful, and you will be doing a public service to me and to the town and district.' I engaged him as printer's devil on that recommendation."

After half an hour of facts and figures, the doctor dismissed his visitors. He was satisfied that this was not an impossible scheme, and he even went so far as to accept a portion of the financial burden. This argued well for the newspaper, for the doctor was a shrewd man.

Ebenezer Brown firmly believed in vested interests when those interests were his own. Until he was actually faced by "The Mercury," he had regarded opposition to "The Observer" as impossible. When confronted by the strong staff of Denis Quirk's paper, he at first began to whine over the treachery of opposition; then he straightened his back to fight.

Gifford, the sub-editor, had hailed the resignation of Cairns as promotion to himself; and so it might have proved, but Ebenezer Brown was far too shrewd to oppose Gifford to Cairns.

"We must find a new editor," he remarked to the former when the rumour of opposition reached him.

Gifford, with a half promise of the editorial chair in his mind, smiled blandly.

"You will not forget——," he began.

"I forget everything," snapped Ebenezer Brown, "when I have to fight. I am going to Melbourne to find a strong editor. After this opposition is crushed I intend to sack him and place you in charge," he added more gently, for he liked Gifford, if he really cared for any man.

But the fight was not to end so simply and speedily as the old man imagined. "The Mercury" dawned on Grey Town, strong, cynical, and up to date. There were initial troubles with the Cable News Agency, but Cairns managed to adjust these, against the determined opposition of Ebenezer Brown. Then came splendid days for the advertising public, when both newspapers brought down their scale of charges to the very lowest price. Keen, too, was the demand for copy when Desmond O'Connor and his junior reporter found themselves opposed to men almost as keen as they. Grey Town fairly throbbed with excitement, and daily searched the rival papers to discover which one had outwitted the other. In the office of "The Mercury" Denis Quirk and Cairns sat together planning new features to place their paper in advance of its rival. Their first success was the nobbling of "The Observer's" senior reporter. For this Tim O'Neil was responsible.

Tim was errand boy, printer's devil, and messenger for "The Mercury," and he firmly believed that the newspaper's success was due to his exertions. All the ingenuity of which he was capable, the boy employed on behalf of his employers. When the State member came to Grey Town to make his election speech, Tim O'Neill recognised an opportunity. It was a notorious fact that "The Observer's" new reporter was addicted to drink, and, after reporting the speech in full, he slipped into the "Royal Hart" Hotel, as was his custom, for a glass of whisky, his shorthand report in his pocket. After him, cautiously, went Tim O'Neill, and abstracted his notes from his pocket, substituting for them a spurious copy. Where Tim had secured this false shorthand report history does not relate, but they were cleverly done, so like and yet so unlike the original as to be ridiculous. It was this report that appeared in "The Observer" next morning. In his fury the editor discharged the chief reporter, and when he went out to re-engage him found that Cairns had been before him.

"Tim O'Neill, you deserve a sound thrashing," said Denis Quirk when he heard of the boy's escapade. "But your wages are raised, not as an incentive to further crimes, but because you have a future before you. Do you ever study?"

"Just a little. Miss Molly is teaching me," said Tim.

"I must arrange with Burnside to give you a few hours every week. You will be an editor some day, Tim, if you avoid the rocks," said Denis Quirk.

That very day Tim came in to Desmond O'Connor, his face the picture of anxiety. Noting this, Desmond eyed the youth in surprise: then he burst out in a shout of laughter.

"What are you doing that for?" asked Tim, furiously.

"I never saw you so melancholy before, Tim. What particular sin have you committed? Or have you lost a far-distant cousin? Confess your guilt, Tim."

"I suppose you think you're funny?" cried Tim. "I've half a mind to go and give myself to 'The Observer,' and ruin this blessed old paper."

Desmond O'Connor's shout of laughter brought Cairns from his room, anxious to share the joke.

"Let us have it at once," he cried. "In this strenuous life a joke is too precious an event to be wasted. Who made it, you or Tim?"

"Tim is acquiring a high sense of humour," said Desmond. "Tell Mr. Cairns your awful threat, Tim."

"Yah!" cried Tim, vindictively, "I'll tell Mr. Cairns what I came to tell you, and leave you to wish you knew it."

Therewith he drew the editor into his room, and closed the doors carefully.

"They're going to strike, sir, on both papers, for higher wages," he said in a low voice.

"Who do you mean, Imp?" asked Cairns, addressing the boy by the name he had especially devised for him.

"The compositors. To-night they're going out to stop both papers."

"Tim O'Neill, you are a perfect mine of information. Providence was determined to bless 'The Mercury' when it sent us Tim O'Neill. Just run away now and ask Mr. Quirk if I can see him."

Denis Quirk was at once a diplomatic and a determined man. On hearing the newest development, he hurried away to interview the prospective strikers.

"Lay your grievances before me," he said. "If I can put them right with justice to the proprietors of this paper, it shall be done."

It was the usual story—higher wages and shorter hours, a larger staff, better paid, with less work to do individually. Denis Quirk offered a compromise, but this was refused. After half an hour's discussion, he suddenly broke out into a white heat of anger.

"Do you fancy I can't do without you?" he cried.

The men replied with a burst of ironical laughter.

"I began life as a compositor, and I have not forgotten my trade," he said. "You can go, every one of you that wants more. But 'The Mercury' will appear to-morrow, take my tip for that."

Sullenly the men withdrew, to hang about outside the office, watching to see who would take their places. But no one came from outside, while in the printing room all was bustle.

"Now, throw off your coats," cried Denis Quirk, "every one of you. You too, Cairns, and do what I tell you. You, Tim O'Neill, take this telegram to the post office. We will have a new staff to-morrow, and men I can rely upon."

In this way "The Mercury" was printed under the greatest difficulties, but the rival newspaper failed to appear. Ebenezer Brown was stubborn, and when his editor brought him the news of the threatened strike he refused to concede anything.

"Not one penny more, and not one second less, will they get from me. Let them strike," he growled.

"But you must come to terms," said the editor. "You can't afford to miss one issue of 'The Observer.'"

"I am paying fair wages, and they may fish for a rise," replied Ebenezer Brown.

The following day, like its rival, "The Observer" was manned again and working smoothly, but its prestige was hopelessly impaired. Thenceforward "The Mercury" advanced daily at the expense of the older paper, until, six weeks after the beginning of the campaign, Ebenezer Brown went to Denis Quirk to effect a compromise.

Denis was sitting in his shirt-sleeves, his collar off and neckband loosened, when Ebenezer Brown entered.

"Sit down, Mr. Brown. I will attend to you in five minutes. We are so confoundedly busy that I must put this through at once."

Ebenezer Brown mumbled something inarticulate and sat down, watching the pile of papers on the desk in front of the man he hated. After a few minutes Denis Quirk swung round on the office stool to face him.

"Well, sir, what is it?" he asked. "An advertisement or an obituary notice of 'The Observer?'"

Ebenezer Brown was rendered speechless with indignation for the moment.

"I didn't come here to be insulted," he growled.

"Then why did you come? Haven't you been throwing insults at me from the columns of your rag these six weeks past? A man doesn't walk into the lion's den to have his hand licked by the lion."

"And how have you treated me?" cried Ebenezer Brown. "First you stole my reporter's copy, then you stole my reporter."

"Stole, sir!" Denis Quirk rang his bell, and Desmond O'Connor entered. "Kindly take down this gentleman's words, Desmond. Now, Mr. Brown, please repeat your statement."

"You are an unscrupulous person!" growled the old man.

"You have that down, Desmond? Continue, Mr. Brown," said Denis Quirk.

"Robber! Forger!" cried the old man, roused to fury. "You have neither manners nor honesty."

Therewith he rose and rushed into the street, and the burst of laughter that he heard as he went did not tend to make him better pleased or satisfied.

"Do you intend to prosecute?" asked Desmond O'Connor.

"Prosecute! No, my lad, I only defend actions for libel. If he had used every term of reproach in every dictionary, I would not be tempted to a prosecution. I am highly flattered. It proves that I have succeeded in making the old man uncomfortable, and satisfies me. Just write a humorous sketch on the little skirmish, but don't give any names. The town will understand who is the principal character if you manage your article dexterously and with humour. Bring it to me to touch up when the sketch is completed."

For two weeks longer "The Observer" struggled on; then Ebenezer Brown sent an intermediary, in the person of a lawyer, to make terms.

"There is only one possible arrangement—"The Observer" goes out," said Quirk. "How much does Ebenezer Brown ask?"

"His proposal is to buy 'The Mercury,'" replied the messenger.

"Hopeless! I have started 'The Mercury' as a financial investment and something more. It is to be a literary battery to galvanise Grey Town into energy. I really don't care a hang for 'The Observer.' That organ is dying rapidly; in a few weeks it will be dead. But I am prepared to pay for a more speedy ending to a useless life," replied Denis Quirk.

"How would a limited proprietary suit you?" asked the lawyer.

"With Ebenezer as a shareholder? Impossible! 'The Mercury' intends to shoot at old Eb. and his sort. These are the men who are holding back the wheels of progress. He is a landlord who keeps his premises in a shocking state, charges big rents, refuses to make repairs, refuses to build, opposes reasonable rates, and holds one half of the council under his domination. Ebenezer Brown represents stagnation and corruption, the last things I intend to countenance."

"Shall I tell him your objection?" laughed the lawyer.

"If it will encourage him to prosecute for libel, I say yes; but you may use your own discretion. Tell him I will buy 'The Observer' right out for a sum to be settled by arbitration—buy it out or destroy it."

Thus did it come to pass that "The Observer" disappeared into oblivion, and in its place came that fiery paper, "The Mercury," respecter of neither person nor position.

It was "The Mercury" that first breathed on the smouldering ashes of municipal discontent, and roused the ratepayers of Grey Town to organise for protection and advancement. Thus was accomplished the first act in a drama, and thus was fought the initial battle of a long and fierce campaign.