"Come to reason--"

Valentine Simmons turned his back squarely upon him. A realization of the
uselessness of further words possessed Gordon; he returned the money to
his pocket. The contemptuous neglect of the other lit the ever-trimmed
lamp of his temper. "What's this," he demanded, "I hear about driving
stage? about Buck boasting around that he had had me laid off?"

"That's not correct," Simmons informed him smoothly; "Buckley has no power
to do that ... the owners of the privilege decided that you were too
unreliable."

"Then it's true," Gordon interrupted him, "I'm off?" Simmons nodded.
Gordon's temper swelled and flared whitely before his vision; rage
possessed him utterly; without balance, check, he was no more than an
insensate force in the grip of his mastering passion. He would stop that
miserable, black heart forever. Old Valentine Simmons' lips tightened, his
fingers twitched; he turned his back deliberately upon Gordon. The metal
buckle which held the strap of his waistcoat caught the sun and reflected
it into Gordon's eyes. "How many gross pink celluloid rattles?" the
storekeeper demanded of the clerk.

Gordon Makimmon's hand crept toward his pocket ... then he remembered--he
had lost that which he sought ... on the side of Cheap Mountain. If
Simmons would turn, say something further, taunt him, he would kill him
with his hands. But Simmons did none of these things; instead he walked
slowly, unharmed, into the store.

XVI

Gordon had intended to avoid the vicinity of the Courthouse on the day of
the sale of his home, but an intangible attraction held him in its
neighborhood. He sat by the door to the office of the _Greenstream Bugle_,
diagonally across the street. Within, the week's edition was going to
press; a burly young individual was turning the cylinders by hand, while
the editor and owner dexterously removed the printed sheets from the
press. The office was indescribably grimy, the rude ceiling was hung with
dusty cobwebs, the windows obscured by a grey film. A small footpress
stood to the left of the entrance, on the right were ranged typesetter's
cases with high, precarious stools, a handpress for proof and a table to
hold the leaded forms. These, with the larger press, an air-tight sheet
iron stove and some nondescript chairs, completed the office furnishings.
Over all hung the smell of mingled grease, ink, and damp paper, flat and
penetrating.

Without, the sun shone ardently;