to the sub-basement, where the presses
ground spruce forests into newspapers. For a little while he stood
watching the great machines with the virgin white rolling smoothly
through them like threads in a loom. He had never lost his fascination
for this alchemy of power, and now, at his darkest hour, the wonder of
it filled him as never before, and the roaring song seemed the sweetest
sound he had ever heard.

He was buried in his dream and the man in overalls who approached him
seemed but a corporeal manifestation of an idea. When he spoke it was
not to a man, but to a wizard who bore the keys of truth. His soul
whispered to the soul of the machines. His words stumbled far behind.

"What a marvel! What power! What magic! What possibilities unthought
of ... oh, the press...."

But it was only a pressman, rather more than usually tired, who
answered.

"Yes, she's a pretty good old girl. But say, you oughta see the new
tubular duplex they're gettin' out! It's got this skinned a mile. Why
say...."

Good's revery faded. Reality obtruded. This poor Prometheus, dabbling
boastfully with the fire of the gods--ah, well ... who that read _The
Dispatch_ on the morrow, with his toast and coffee, would know the
magic, the wonder, the poetry in his hands? Would it be ought but a
newspaper to a single one? Blind world!

"What drives the presses?" he asked dreamily.

"Well, this one has a G. E. polyphase, monitor control, with ..." began
the pressman. But the words fell on empty air. The other man had gone.

CHAPTER XI

"TEARS ... AND THEN ICE"

The next afternoon Good got together an account of his stewardship and
went to see Judith, who was at Braeburn. He took the four o'clock train.

Several stations out, a roughly dressed man entered the car and took the
seat next to him. Presently he asked for a match, and with that as an
opening, requested what, with delicate euphemism, he characterised as a
"loan" of a pipeful of tobacco.

"When were you discharged?" asked Good quietly, as he handed over his
pouch. The man changed colour and seemed to shrink visibly into the
corner of his seat.

"Who the ... I haven't been discharged," he stammered.

"Deserter, then?"

"I don't get ye."

"What's the use of stalling," said Good. "I've served myself."

The man looked over his shoulder furtively. "How did ye know?" he
whispered.

"It takes a long time to lose that set to your shoulders, my friend."

"Well--what ye