happy pair left on the six-fifty-eight for a brief
honeymoon at Niagara Falls, and on their return will occupy the Latimer
mansion on North Oak Street, recently purchased by the groom in view of
his approaching nuptials. A wide circle of friends wish them all
happiness."

Wilbur Cowan again surveyed the office, and again peered sharply in at
Sam Pickering. His first wild thought was that Sam had descended to a
practical joke. If so it was a tasteless proceeding. But he must be
game. It was surely a joke, and Sam and the others in the office would
be watching him for signs of anguish. His machine steadily clicked off
the item. He struck not one wrong letter. He hung the sheet of copy on
its hook and waited for the explosion of crude humour. He felt that his
impassive demeanour had foiled the mean intention. But no one regarded
him. Sam Pickering wrote on. Terry Stamper stolidly ran off cards on the
job press. They were all indifferent. Something told him it was not a
joke.

He finished the next sheet of copy. Then, when he was certain he had not
been jested with, he rose from the torturing machine, put on his coat,
and told Sam Pickering he had an engagement. Sam hoped it wouldn't keep
him from work that afternoon.

Wilbur said "Possibly not," though he knew he would now loathe the
linotype forever.

"By the way"--he managed it jauntily, as Sam bent again over his pad of
yellow copy paper--"I see Lyme Teaford's name is going to be in print
this week."

Sam paused in his labour and chuckled.

"Yes, the old hard-shell is landed. That blonde hasn't been bringing him
his three meals a day all this time for nothing."

"She must have married him for his money," Wilbur heard himself saying
in cold, cynical tones. The illumining thought had just come. That
explained it.

"Sure," agreed Sam. "Why wouldn't she?"

* * * * *

Late that afternoon, in the humble gymnasium at the rear of Pegleg
McCarron's, Spike Brennon emerged from a rally in which Wilbur Cowan had
displayed unaccustomed spirit. Spike tenderly caressed his nose with a
glove and tried to look down upon it. The swelling already showed to his
oblique gaze.

"Say, kid," he demanded, irritably, "what's the big idea? Is this murder
or jest a friendly bout? You better behave or I'll stop pullin' my
punches."

It could not be explained to the aggrieved Spike that his opponent had
for the moment convinced himself that he faced on