Good and Roger Wynrod sat in the latter's office one afternoon, about a week later, discussing, as was their regular habit, the day's paper. This conference had always been a one-sided one, but of late the balance had shifted. At first Good had done the talking and Roger had listened. Now it was the other way around. That the change was not displeasing to Good was manifest from the faint smile which played around his lips. He smoked his pipe gravely and had very little to say. He acquiesced in everything and made no suggestions.

When matters of a routine nature had been disposed of, Roger leaned back in his chair and lighted a cigarette.

"I had lunch the other day with Dick Menefee, Corey's new advertising manager," he said with a reminiscent chuckle. "He was in my class in college—same society and all that. First thing he asked me was why The Dispatch was on their blacklist."

"I suppose you told him?"

"With variations. Also I told him one or two things they probably don't know at Corey's."

"About—?"

"Yes. It interested him because he doesn't cotton to Joe much better than we do."

"What happened?"

"Well, Dick's an independent sort of a chap, with some fancy ideas of his own. He couldn't see why they should pass up a chance to sell goods to our readers just for spite. I tried to explain it to him, but he didn't seem impressed. He said he was going to stir things up."

"Did he?"

Roger smiled. "Rather! I saw him again yesterday. It seems they had a most beautiful row. Dick resigned and Faxon threatened to, and Corey couldn't make up his mind whether he'd fire 'em before they had a chance to resign. Oh, it was a jolly mess ... but we'll have a contract like the old one in a day or two!"

"Not really?"

"Big as life. Menefee pointed out to them that while they could use their advertising appropriation as a club, it was only a stuffed club. If any paper had sense enough to call the bluff all they could do was to crawl as gracefully as possible. He raked up a lot of old records and showed Corey where he was losing cold dollars by staying out of The Dispatch. He said he didn't know what the rest of them were but he was a business man, and he didn't give a damn what sort of stuff a paper ran if it sold goods for him. That struck the old man as pretty good sense, and he refused to accept Dick's resignation. Faxon saw which way the wind had shifted and reefed his canvas. Anyway ... they're coming back."

"The other stores will follow, I suppose."

"They're bound to," cried Roger. "They're bluffed to a standstill, and they know it. With Corey's backing down they've got to follow suit—pride or no pride."

"I suppose you're pretty pleased," said Good with a smile.

"Pleased? Honest, I'm tickled pink! I feel as if I'd been sitting in on a sky-the-limit game boosting the ante with a pair of shoe-strings. I've felt like passing lots of times. Without you at my elbow I guess I'd have done it."

"You think that's—unusual?"

"Maybe not that. But I do feel—well—like a burglar."

"My dear boy," laughed Good, "I'm not much of a business man, but I think a general show-down would reveal a lot of jokers in front of chaps who are playing like royal flushes. A good face with an empty hand wins in other games besides poker. You can't bank nerve—but you can draw checks on it."

As he finished speaking, a boy entered and handed him a card. He glanced at it, hesitated a moment, scratching his head thoughtfully, and then, with an inscrutable smile, passed it to Roger.

"It's for you, lad."

"But didn't he ask for you?" said Roger surprisedly.

"Yes—but he made a mistake."

"All right—show him in."

A moment later a round little man, with bulging eyes which peered near-sightedly and with a curiously worried expression from beneath a deeply furrowed forehead, seated himself at the desk behind which Roger was seated.

"Mr. Good," he began, "I ..."

Good, who had withdrawn his chair unobtrusively into a corner, spoke quietly.

"You're addressing Mr. Wynrod. He's the man you want to see."

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.

"I say most newspapers. And I say it with a purpose, sir. I don't suppose you can guess what it is?" He smiled archly, and when Roger could not guess, he added, with profound conviction, "The Dispatch, thank God, is not like most papers. It is free, daring, original. I ask you, sir, to use it in a cause worthy of all its freedom, its daring, its originality. I ask you—yes, I command you—to put its tremendous and growing power behind the greatest movement of the age, that..."

"You mean..."

"I mean," said Mr. Burdick with solemnity, as if he were conferring an accolade, "I mean that I seek the enlistment of The Dispatch under the glowing banner of the single-tax."

He folded his arms and waited for a reply. Roger cast a troubled glance at Good, and turned away helplessly from the blank countenance which met him. It seemed to the tall man, studying his protÉgÉ narrowly through half-closed lids, that he was indecisive. But he waited hopefully. He was not certain. Presently Roger bit off the end of a cigar, and chewed it thoughtfully. Then he squared his shoulders and the light of resolution came into his eyes. Good sighed contentedly. He had been mistaken.

"I guess you don't quite understand The Dispatch, Mr. Burdick," said Roger quietly, but none the less firmly. "It doesn't take sides."

"But the single-tax...."

"It makes no difference what the side is. We're not partisan."

"But, my dear sir," cried Mr. Burdick, a quite unsuspected temper manifesting itself. "It's not a political party. It's not a religion. It's not—dogmatic in any sense. It's just—an idea. You seem to favour advanced ideas. You give space ... why, you had two columns about a socialist meeting that was raided by the police!"

"I know," said Roger gently. "But—that was news."

The subtle distinctions implied in that sentence appeared to halt the little man for a moment. But he was not long daunted.

"Well," he cried triumphantly, "wasn't the abolition of slavery news? Wouldn't the abolition of poverty be news? My dear young man—" His tone became unmistakably patronising. "It would be the most tremendous piece of news you could possibly print. Everything else would pale into insignificance beside it. Why...."

"Mr. Burdick," Roger's voice was a trifle cold. The intimation of patronage had annoyed him. "Personally I might have all kinds of sympathy with the idea you represent. But that has nothing to do with it. We're running a newspaper—nothing else. We print news—not opinions. The distinction must be clear to you, I'm sure." His momentary irritation had vanished, and he finished with a friendly smile.

But Mr. Burdick's wrath was not to be thus easily assuaged.

"Then you decline to take any interest in our cause?" he demanded belligerently, his sudden truculence contrasting very curiously with his peaceful face. As a matter of fact, no one could be more keenly conscious of his inadequate appearance than he was himself. More than once he had stood before his mirror and cursed the image which blinked timidly back at him. A man of less will would have yielded and become resignedly subject to the body which Nature had imposed upon him. But Mr. Burdick was a man of rare spirit.

"You don't believe in it, do you?" he continued, in a voice which had become shrill. "You're opposed to it?"

"On the contrary—"

"Then why...." Obviously Mr. Burdick was exasperated.

"My dear Mr. Burdick," said Roger patiently, "I've already told you. Your cause is a good one—sure. But so's the Y. M. C. A. So are foreign missions. So's the Republican Party—now and then. But causes aren't news. You talk about the abolition of slavery. Sure—that was news ... after the abolition. Go ahead and abolish poverty—I don't care how little—and we'll give you the run of the paper. But you've got to break out. You've got to make news. If you can't make it by abolishing poverty, hire a hall and get pinched ... we'll give you two columns too."

"If you are endeavouring to be flippant ..." began Mr. Burdick, rising, and drawing himself up to his full height—which was not very impressive, as none knew better than himself.

"No," said Roger very earnestly. "I'm not. I never was more serious in my life. Only you won't understand. People with axes to grind never do. They always get sore when we won't help the job. You see...."

"I shall wish you a very good afternoon," said Mr. Burdick stiffly.

Roger shrugged his shoulders. "As you please. I hope the wish comes true."

The little man ignored the persiflage. He clapped his hat down on his head savagely, and beat what was intended for a very dignified retreat, but which, for reasons over which the poor man had no control, fell short of the intention in several essential particulars.

"And say," called Roger, as his visitor reached the doorway, "don't get sore. Drop in occasionally and have a chat."

The slamming door was the only response. Roger laughed and turned to Good who had sat like a graven image all through the interview.

"Well—how did it go?"

For reply Good rose and stretched himself and yawned prodigiously—all of which procedure was an elaborate simulation of emotions which he did not in the least feel. He then walked over to the desk and carefully emptied his pipe. And finally, with sustained deliberateness, he held out his great hand.

"Put it there, my boy," he said gravely. But Roger had hardly complied, eyeing him curiously the while, when Good's hand dropped and he walked to the window. It was several minutes before he turned and met the younger man's gaze with his own.

"I guess I can go now," he said in a voice which seemed at once triumphant and inexpressibly sad.

"I don't understand...."

"You've learned all I have to teach you, lad." Good's deep voice was low, but it reverberated sonorously in the little room. "You're on the bridge now. You're in deep water. You can drop the pilot."

"What the dickens are you driving at, anyway?"

"I'm quitting, Roger." The words were said almost in a whisper, and the deep-set, wistful eyes gleamed very tenderly. "My work's done. It's up to you now."

"You don't mean ... you're not leaving the paper? Why, that's nonsense! It can't be. What's upset you, anyhow? Oh, come, this won't do, you know. I won't have it. I simply won't. Why, good Lord, man—I'd be lost!"

"No." Good shook his head and his voice vibrated as if he found it difficult to hold it in check. "You're free now. This talk proved it. You don't need me any longer. I've done my work. It's time to wander."

"But w-w-why?" stammered Roger. "Can't you give any reason? What's the trouble at the bottom of it? You haven't had a fuss with sis, have you? Surely you're not doing this just because I'm more on my feet than I was? I'm far from not needing you, God knows. Aren't there other reasons?"

"Yes," said Good dully, "there are other reasons."

"Well, good Lord," cried Roger in exasperation mingled with alarm. "Won't you tell them?"

"No," said Good shortly, "I won't." Then, abruptly, he held out his hand. "Good-bye, lad. Here's luck." His voice broke, and he turned. Before Roger could get around the desk to him, the door had closed and he was gone.

The young man stood with his jaw hanging. He was utterly nonplussed. Good had gone out of his life as suddenly, as unreasonably, as amazingly as he had come into it. He racked his brains futilely for an explanation. Had he been a trifle younger it is probable that he would have wept.

It was the end of the day, and darkness had fallen. But even if it had been the first hour of the morning he would have gone home at once. The office had become unendurable.

He found Judith having tea with Imrie. Though of a thoroughly objective nature, not given to unnecessary straying into imaginative by-paths, particularly those with unpleasant endings, Roger was far from insensible to the grim irony of the situation. He almost laughed as he told his news.

Judith received the tidings more calmly than he had anticipated. Indeed, he could not recall, subsequently, that she said anything at all. It is possible, however, that she said more than he heard. The fact was that rather more instinctively than consciously, he watched, most closely, the effect of the intelligence upon Imrie.

But whatever Imrie's emotions, he concealed them well. He said very little, managing to express his surprise and regret with an apparently quite genuine sincerity. In a few moments he recalled a forgotten engagement, and left. It was not lost upon Roger that his tea was untasted....

Judith, however, recalled him to less recondite speculation.

"It's absurd, of course," she said in a voice which struck him as very strange and mechanical. "He can't leave us like this. It's too ridiculous." For a moment he thought her feeling was one of resentment. "Where can I reach him?" she asked abruptly. He concluded that it was something quite different.

"God knows," he said. "But don't worry. It's just a tantrum. He'll be back."

"Did you ever know him to have a tantrum?" demanded Judith, almost fiercely. Roger was startled. He had never seen his sister look or act just like that before. He tried, unsuccessfully, to guess what it all signified.

"Call up the office and see if you can get his address," she ordered. Obediently he went to the telephone. When he returned, she was pacing slowly to and fro before the fireplace. Her mouth was curiously set, with what sentiments he could not tell, and her eyebrows were drawn together in two deep incisions. At her unspoken question he shook his head.

"But I must find him—I simply must, you know," she cried petulantly, like a child. He could only shrug his shoulders.

"It's so utterly silly," she murmured.

Suddenly she ceased pacing the floor, to stand staring, glassy-eyed, at him ... and then, like a pricked balloon, she collapsed inertly on the lounge, her face buried in her arms. Her heaving back and the sound from the cushions, needed no explanation.

Roger stole softly from the room. He wondered, uncomfortably, as he went upstairs, if he would ever understand women. Being about to marry one, it struck him that some sort of understanding was rather important.