more gullible men and women may lay their hopes on the altar of his greed!" He looked down at his desk.
"This is Jenny Parker's obituary, Helen—" He paused.
"Roads and schools cost money and this is a poor county. The Thad Parkers can't build highways; Chief Pontiac Power won't; but Jim Harris needs improvements to swell his profits. Jim Harris was behind Sim Burns in his election. There's only one property left, politically unprotected, that can foot big bills."
Some of the color went from her face
"And that is why they threaten to tax Foraker's Folly out of the country?"
"It looks that way. We can't fool ourselves on the direction of the wind."
He rose and paced the floor, rummaging in the pockets of his baggy trousers. Thrice he went the width of the office before the girl, hands lax in her lap, looked up. Then she said:
"I'm depending on you, so! You're the only friend I have who can stand behind me—or before me. My father could teach me forestry, but in the game of trickery—he was a child."
The old man rested a hand on her shoulder.
"At the next session of the legislature," he said, "we may be able to make some headway in protecting you from our asinine laws. And until then, I'll be with you from soup to—Omega!"
Outside, a man loitering on the walk, started suddenly across the street. A curtain in that upstairs front room of the hotel had moved slightly. The editor took the worn book from his desk drawer and wrote painstakingly:
"11.57 a.m. Wes. Hubbard."
