neglecting to even write—"
"The place is open, and waiting," said Stratton. "And—and the famous Animal Show comes on the Seventeenth; the advance man was in yesterday and left the tickets!"
Arriving in town Stratton wired the remaining details of his story, and together they wandered around to the little shop where the old editor welcomed the girl back gladly, and Stratton had her sit at the desk by the window and tap the red curve of her lower lip with the tip of her pencil as she gazed across upon the courthouse square, for this, he declared, had been her habit. For a long time the three talked of the old times that had come again. "And some day," said the old editor, "I shall cease to edit the Sun, and I like to think that you two will be here in my place, and that the work will go on."
Next morning there came to Stratton a long telegram from the Sentinel. The accident of his having been near the scene of the wreck had enabled that paper to score a very clean beat over its rivals, and the message, in consequence, was enthusiastic and one of congratulation. "We haven't succeeded in finding anyone who handles the violence stories as well as you," the message concluded. "Your old position is open if you care to return."
Stratton's pulse quickened at this admission of ability. He sat very still, puzzling silently. The lagging midday breeze floated in at the open windows and rustled the slip in his hand. In the rear of the shop the old editor leaned over a table, spectacles well down on his nose, his lips moving as he corrected a strip of proof.
Presently, Stratton tossed the telegram to the girl. "Your old position," she stated, "they've offered it back. That's fine," striving to put enthusiasm into her voice. "I'm glad, for your sake. Let me be the first to congratulate you." And she held out her hand with a vague smile. Stratton rose to his feet and picked up the telegram, tearing it slowly into a dozen strips. Both smiled faintly as they watched the pieces flutter down into the waste basket.
"Yes," said Stratton, taking the proffered hand, "you shall be the first to congratulate me."
- Hapsburg Liebe tells one of his stories of the Tennessee mountains next month; a story of the land where the laurel and the feud flourish. BUCK HENRY, DESERTER is the name of it; and it has something in it besides a feud.
