re miles
from large shops and are forced to do much of their purchasing by mail,
so such catalogues are a great convenience to them."

"I can see that," Paul admitted.

"Yes, indeed. Catalogues to those living in sparsely settled districts
are a profound blessing. I should not be surprised to see the paper,
ink, and printing business one of our largest industries. We cannot do
without any of these commodities. Have you thought, for example, of the
amount of material and labor that goes into producing the millions of
thick telephone directories annually circulated among the subscribers?
All these have to be printed somewhere."

"It must be an awful piece of work to get them out, Dad."

"It is. They must be printed absolutely correctly too, for an error will
cause both the exchange and the subscriber no end of trouble. So it is
with residence directories and many similar lists. If you consider, you
can readily see that as a nation we consume an unbelievable amount of
paper and ink in a year. That is why the shortage of these materials
during the war caused such universal inconvenience. And not only do we
demand a great deal of paper, and ink, and printer's skill in every
department of our business, but being a country alert for education, we
annually use a tremendous number of schoolbooks. Hundreds, thousands,
millions of schoolbooks are printed each year for the purpose of
educating and democratizing our growing citizens."

Paul stirred in his chair uneasily. The talk had drifted back into the
familiar channels of the present. Again the school, Mr. Carter, the
fifty-dollar bill, and the thoughts that for the instant had taken
flight now returned to his mind, bringing a cloud to his face.

His father, noticing the shadow, looked kindly into the boy's eyes.

"You are tired to-night, son," he said.

"A little."

"Not working too hard?"

"No, sir. I don't think so."

"Everything going all right at school?"

"Yes."

"Paper still booming?"

"Yes, Dad. Going finely."

"I am glad to hear that."

Mr. Cameron waited a second. A wild impulse to take his father into his
confidence seized Paul. He hesitated. Then it was too late. His father
rose and with a friendly touch on his shoulder strode across the hall
and into his den.

"You must not overwork at your editorial desk, my boy," he called
jocosely from the distant threshold. "It doesn't pay."

Paul heard the door slam. The moment for confession had passed.