" Mr. Wright
replied. They laughed together.

"But, Jove! It was worth it though, wasn't it?" cried Paul.

"I think so."

"I, too! Only," added the boy, "I still believe we ought to pay more for
our newspapers."

CHAPTER XV

THE DECISION

For the next few days after his return from Boston Paul thought and
talked of little else save the great newspaper press that he had seen.
Beside a project as tremendous as the publication of a widely circulated
daily the _March Hare_ became a pitifully insignificant affair.

Nevertheless the _March Hare_ was not to be thrust aside. It clamored
for attention. Its copy came in as before from students and staff, and
mixed with this material were some exceptionally fine articles from
patents and distant alumnae. Judge Damon had taken to contributing a
short, crisp editorial almost every month, something of civic or
national importance; and two of Burmingham's graduates who were in
France sent letters that added an international flavor to the magazine.
Never had the issues been so good. Certainly the monthly so modestly
begun had ripened into an asset that all the town would regret to part
with.

In the meantime graduation was approaching and the day was drawing
near when 1920 must bid good-by to the familiar halls of the school, and
instead of standing and looking down from the top of the ladder, as it
now did, it must set forth into the turmoil of real life where its
members would once again be beginners. What an ironic transformation
that would be! A senior was a person looked up to by the entire student
body, a dignitary to be treated with profound respect. But once outside
the sheltering walls of his Alma Mater he would suddenly become a very
ordinary being who, like Samson shorn of his locks, would enter business
or college a weak, timid neophyte. It seemed absurd that such a change
could be wrought in so short a time.

But before the day when the diplomas with their stiff white bows would
be awarded, the future fate of the _March Hare_ must be decided. Every
recurrence of this thought clouded Paul's brow. He still had intact Mr.
Carter's fifty-dollar bill. It was as crisp and fresh as on the day the
magnate of Burmingham had put it into his hand, and the typewriter Paul
coveted still glistened in the window of a shop on the main street. Day
after day he had vacillated between the school and that fascinating
store window, and each day he had looked, envied, and co