ng around the corner, and
there in the doorway, as fresh and confident as you please, stood that
rascal of a Norton Carr, whistling a little tune and looking out with a
cocky eye upon the world of Hempfield.

"Hello, David!" he called out when he saw me.

"Hello, Nort!" I responded; "it's a wonderful morning."

He took a quick step forward and clapped me on the shoulder as I came
up.

"Exactly what I've been thinking," he said eagerly, "and it's going to
be a wonderful day."

If ever youth and joy-of-life spoke in a human voice, they spoke that
morning in Nort's. I cannot convey the sudden sense it gave me of the
roseate illusion of adventure. It _was_ going to be a wonderful day!

I think Nort confidently expected to see a long line of people gathering
in front of the office that morning clamouring to buy extra copies of
the _Star_.

He had been so positive that the appearance of the poetry would stir
Hempfield to its depths that he had urged the publication of a large
extra edition. But the Captain assured him that the only thing that ever
really produced an extra sale of the _Star_ was a "big obituary." In its
palmy days, when the Captain let himself go, and the deceased was really
worthy of the Captain's facile and flowery pen, the _Star_ had sold as
many as two hundred extra papers. It was as much a part of any properly
conducted funeral in Hempfield to buy copies of the Captain's
obituaries--the same issue also containing the advertised thanks of the
family to the friends who had been with them in their sore
bereavement--as it was for the choir to sing "Lead, Kindly Light."

Fergus, especially, jeered at the proposal of an extra edition. It was
not the money loss that disturbed Fergus, for that would be next to
nothing at all, it was the thought of being stampeded by Nort's
enthusiasm, and afterward hearing the sarcastic comments of Ed Smith.
While this heated controversy was going on, Anthy quietly ordered the
paper--and we printed the extra copies.

All that morning I saw Nort glancing from time to time out of the
window. No line appeared. Nine o'clock--and no line--not even one
visitor! Nort fidgeted around the press, emptied the wastebasket, looked
at his watch. Ten o'clock----

Steps on the porch--soft, hesitating steps. Out of the corner of my eye
I could see Nort stiffen up and his face begin to glow. A little
barefooted boy edged his way in at the door. We all looked around at
him. I confess t