stiff-bosomed shirt was open at the throat, his vest unbuttoned.
"Gentlemen," he said, and bowed.
They were all old men, except Sim; some white headed, some grizzled; some withered, a few portly; of the old order in body and thought.
Wes Hubbard took his feet from the chairman's desk.
"Mornin' Hump'," he said and picked up the gavel. "Lookin' for a piece for th' Banner?"
There was something malicious in the casual question.
"Yes, for the Banner—perhaps."
"Ought to make a good write-up. We're goin' to resolute for a new court house an' for lots of roads this afternoon."
"That's commendable. We've managed to stagger along with the old tin shack and our sand trails for quite a while.
"You think, do you gentlemen, that the electorate will vote the bonds?"
"Sure thing!" It was Sim Burns, rather defensive in his manner. "Why shouldn't they?"
The editor shrugged. His blue eyes were very bright, but unsmiling; very quick in their darting from face to face, but not shifting—just prying, roving, alive and alert.
"There's only one thing to stand in the way," he said, "Taxes."
Wes Hubbard rose.
"I guess that th' people understand pretty well that th' country's goin' to be better fixed for funds."
"That's why I came over, gentlemen, to ask, as a representative of the press, about the revised assessments."
There was a stir in the group; men drew closer together.
