Demon Rum was destroying its manhood.

Mr. Butefish laid down the proof-sheet, sighed deeply, and quite
unconsciously moistened his lips.

He was for Reform, certainly, but the thought would intrude that when
Vice moved on to greener fields it took with it much of the zest of
living. In the days when a man could get drunk as he liked and as often
as he liked without fear of criticism, sure of being laid away tenderly
by tolerant friends, instead of, as now,--being snaked, scuffling, to
the calaboose by the constable--

The arrival of the mail with its exchanges interrupted thoughts flowing
in a dangerous channel.

The soaring price of wool, featured in the headlines, caught his
attention instantly, since, naturally, anything that pertained to the
sheep industry was of interest to the community. Mr. Butefish used his
scissors freely and opined that the next issue of the _Grit_ would be a
corker. Then an idea came to him. Why not make it a sheep number
exclusively? Give all the wool-growers in the vicinity a write-up.
Great! He'd do it. Mr. Butefish enumerated them on his fingers. When he
came to Kate Prentice, he hesitated. Would Prouty stand for it--the
eulogy he contemplated? In a small paper one had to consider local
prejudices--besides, she was not a subscriber.

While Mr. Butefish debated, a spirit of rebellion rose within him. Ever
since he had established the paper he had been a worm, and what had it
got him? It had got him in debt to the point of bankruptcy--that's what
it had got him--and he was good and sick of it! He was tired of
grovelling--nauseated with catering to a public that paid in rutabagas
and elk meat that was "spoilin' on 'em." He hadn't started in
right--that was half the trouble. If he had dug into their pasts and
blackmailed 'em, they'd be eating out of his hand, instead of pounding
on the desk in front of him if he transposed their initials. He would
have been a power in the country in place of having to drag his hat brim
to 'em, lest they take out their advertisement of a setting of eggs or a
Plymouth Rock rooster.

He'd show 'em, by gorry! He'd show 'em! Mr. Butefish jabbed his pen into
the potato he used as a penwiper, instead of the ink, in his fury. He
wrote with the rapidity of inspiration, and words came which he had not
known were in his vocabulary as he extolled Kate and her achievements.
Emotion welled within him until his collar choked him, so he removed it,
while the pen spr