apture the country; but, my goodness! I didn't expect to have
New York fall into our hands at a blow. But that's just exactly what New
York has done. Every Other Week supplies the long-felt want that's been
grinding round in New York and keeping it awake nights ever since the
war. It's the culmination of all the high and ennobling ideals of the
past."

"How much," asked Dryfoos, "do you expect to get out of it the first
year, if it keeps the start it's got?"

"Comes right down to business, every time!" said Fulkerson, referring
the characteristic to March with a delighted glance. "Well, sir, if
everything works right, and we get rain enough to fill up the springs,
and it isn't a grasshopper year, I expect to clear above all expenses
something in the neighborhood of twenty-five thousand dollars."

"Humph! And you are all going to work a year--editor, manager,
publisher, artists, writers, printers, and the rest of 'em--to clear
twenty-five thousand dollars?--I made that much in half a day in Moffitt
once. I see it made in half a minute in Wall Street, sometimes." The
old man presented this aspect of the case with a good-natured contempt,
which included Fulkerson and his enthusiasm in an obvious liking.

His son suggested, "But when we make that money here, no one loses it."

"Can you prove that?" His father turned sharply upon him. "Whatever is
won is lost. It's all a game; it don't make any difference what you bet
on. Business is business, and a business man takes his risks with his
eyes open."

"Ah, but the glory!" Fulkerson insinuated with impudent persiflage. "I
hadn't got to the glory yet, because it's hard to estimate it; but
put the glory at the lowest figure, Mr. Dryfoos, and add it to the
twenty-five thousand, and you've got an annual income from 'Every Other
Week' of dollars enough to construct a silver railroad, double-track,
from this office to the moon. I don't mention any of the sister planets
because I like to keep within bounds."

Dryfoos showed his lower teeth for pleasure in Fulkerson's fooling,
and said, "That's what I like about you, Mr. Fulkerson--you always keep
within bounds."

"Well, I ain't a shrinking Boston violet, like March, here. More
sunflower in my style of diffidence; but I am modest, I don't deny it,"
said Fulkerson. "And I do hate to have a thing overstated."

"And the glory--you do really think there's something in the glory that
pays?"

"Not a doubt of it! I shouldn't care