At the close of the session that day Paul walked with reluctant feet toward the office of the Echo.

It was with the greatest difficulty that he had shaken off the fellows one by one,—Melville, Roger Bell, Donald Hall, Billie Ransom, and the other boys; he had even evaded Converse who, having heard the good news, came jubilantly toward him with the words:

"1920 is all right! She never was yellow, and I knew she wouldn't change color at this late date."

Paul smiled and passed on. Yes, he had done the square thing; he knew it perfectly well. Nor did he regret his action. On the contrary he was more light-hearted than he had been for a long time. Nevertheless he did not exactly fancy the coming interview with Mr. Carter.

He had called up the Echo, and by a bit of good fortune had managed not only to get into touch with the editorial office but to reach the publisher himself. If the business at hand were important, Mr. Carter would see him. It was important, Paul said. Then he might come promptly at four o'clock and the magnate would give him half an hour.

It was almost four now. The hands of the clock were moving toward the dreaded moment only too fast.

Soon, the boy reflected with a little shiver up his spine, he would be in the bare little sanctum of the great man, facing those piercing eyes and handing back the fifty-dollar bill that had lain in his pocket for so many weeks; and he would be confessing that he had failed in his mission,—nay, worse than that, that he had not even tried to accomplish it. It would, of course, be impossible to explain how, when the crisis had come, something within him had leaped into being,—something that had automatically prevented him from doing what was wrong and forced him to do what was right. He took small credit to himself for his deed. It was his good genius that deserved the praise. He wondered idly as he went along whether this potent force had been his conscience or his soul. Well, it did not matter much; the result was the same. Conscience, soul, whatever it was, it was sending him back to Carter with that unspent bribe money.

He was glad of it. Had he but done this weeks before, he would have been spared days and weeks of uncertainty and worry. He realized now that he had never felt right, felt happy about that bill. Yet although his bonds were now to be broken, and he was to be free at last, the shattering of his fetters was not to be a pleasant process. He knew Mr. Carter too well to deceive himself into imagining that the affair would pass off lightly. Mr. Carter was a proud man. He would not like having his gift hurled back into his face. Nor would he enjoy being beaten. Greater than any value he would set on the ownership of the March Hare would loom the consciousness that he had been defeated, balked by a lot of schoolboys, by one boy in particular. The incident would ruffle his vanity and annoy him mightily.

It was with this knowledge that Paul stepped into the elevator. How he wished there was some escape from the approaching interview! If only Mr. Carter should prove to be busy, or be out!

But Mr. Carter was not busy, and he was not out! On the contrary, the clerk told Paul that the great man was expecting him and had given orders that he was to come into the office as soon as he arrived.

Gulping down a nervous tremor, the lad steadied himself and put his hand on the knob of the awful ground-glass door. Once on the other side of it and all retreat would be cut off. Not that he really wished to retreat. It was only that he dreaded.... The knob turned and he was inside the room.

Mr. Carter was at his desk dictating a letter; he finished the last sentence and motioned his stenographer to withdraw. He then asked Paul to sit down in the chair the girl had vacated.

"Well, you've got some news for me," he began without preamble.

"Yes, sir," Paul replied. "We had a class meeting to-day. I couldn't put your deal through, Mr. Carter. I'm bringing back the money."

He laid the bill on the publisher's desk.

Mr. Carter paid no heed to the money. Instead he kept his eyes on the boy before him, studying him through the smoke that clouded the room.

"You couldn't pull it off, eh?" he said sharply. "I'm sorry to hear that. What was the trouble?"

"I didn't try to pull it off."

"Didn't try!"

"No, sir."

"You mean you didn't advise your staff to sell out?"

"I spoke against it."

"Against it!" snarled Carter, leaning forward in his chair.

The room was breathlessly still.

"You see," explained the boy, "the more I thought about it the less I approved of what you wanted me to do. I tried to think it was straight but I didn't really think so. When the fellows asked my honest opinion, I simply had to tell them the truth."

Mr. Carter made no comment, nor did his eyes leave Paul's face, but he drew his shaggy brows together and scowled.

"So," went on Paul desperately, "I've brought your money back to you. It's the same bill you gave me. I didn't spend it. Somehow I couldn't bring myself to."

There was an awkward pause. Paul got to his feet.

"I'm—I'm—sorry to have disappointed you, Mr. Carter," he murmured in a low tone as he moved across the room to go. "You have been mighty kind to us boys."

The door was open and he was crossing the threshold before the man at the desk spoke; then he called:

"Hold on a minute, son."

Paul turned.

"Shut that door."

Wondering, the boy obeyed.

Mr. Carter took up the greenback lying before him.

"So you've been carrying that money round with you ever since I gave it to you, have you?"

"Yes, sir."

"It's a long time; some weeks."

"Yes," stammered Paul. "I ought to have brought it back to you before."

"I could charge you interest on it."

The smile that accompanied the speech escaped Paul.

"I'll pay whatever you think proper," he said.

"Nonsense, boy! I was only joking," the publisher hastened to say. "But tell me something; what was it you wanted that money for? You must have needed it badly or you would not have been threatening to sell out your Liberty Bond."

"I was going to buy a typewriter, sir."

"Oh! And you didn't get it. That was a pity."

The man tapped the edge of the bill he held against the desk thoughtfully. Paul waited for him to speak; but when after an interval he still remained silent the lad shifted uneasily from one foot to the other and remarked:

"I guess I'll be going along, sir. The half hour you were to give me is up."

Then Mr. Carter spoke.

"Will you shake hands with me, my boy, before you go, or have you too poor an opinion of me for that?"

"Indeed I haven't a poor opinion of you, Mr. Carter," replied Paul, with hearty sincerity. "You have always been mighty good to me. It's true I didn't like your March Hare proposition but—"

"Your father hasn't much use for me either, I'm afraid," Mr. Carter observed moodily.

"Dad thinks you bought up the election."

"He's right. I set out to win a majority in this town and I did it. But in order to beat a man as white as your father I had to resort to a pretty poor weapon. Everything was with him. Measured up side by side we weren't in the same class. He was by far the better man and I knew it. I couldn't beat him as to character but I could do it with money, and I did. It was a contemptible game. I've always despised myself for playing it. I wish you'd tell your dad so."

Paul could scarcely credit his ears.

"And about this school business," went on Mr. Carter—"you were just right, son. The school should continue the paper along the lines on which you have started it. It ought to remain the property of the students, too. All is, if next year they care to have the Echo print it, we'll donate the labor free. The school can pay the actual cost of materials and I'll see to the rest of it. I can afford to do one decent thing for Burmingham, I guess."

"Oh, Mr. Carter," gasped Paul, "that would be—"

But the man interrupted him.

"And there's a second-hand typewriter lying round here somewhere that you can have if you like. We are getting a new one of another make. You won't find this much worn I reckon, and I guess you can manage to get some work out of it. I'll send it round to your house to-morrow in my car."

"Why, sir, I can't—"

The great man put out his hand kindly.

"There, there, run along! I'm busy," he said. "Don't forget my message to your father."

"No, sir."

Then he added hurriedly:

"I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Carter."

"That's all right," nodded the publisher, cutting him short. "I've always had the greatest respect for your father. Tell him from me that he needn't be ashamed of his son."

With these parting words he waved Paul out of the office and the door closed.