the old man's consent." Barry tested the spring of a roller shade,
with a scowl. "Barnes, the assistant editor he had before me, threw
up his job because he wouldn't stand having his stuff cut all to
pieces and changed to suit Rogers' policies," he went on, as Mrs.
Burgoyne's eyes demanded more detail. "And that's what I'll do some
day. In the six years since the old man bought it, the circulation
has fallen off about half; we don't get any 'ads'; we're not paying
expenses. It's a crime too, for it's a good paper. Even Rogers is
sick of it now; he'd sell for a song. I'd borrow the money and buy
it if it weren't for the presses; I'd have to have new presses.
Everything here is in pretty good shape," he finished, with an air
of changing the subject.

"And what would new presses cost?" Sidney Burgoyne persisted,
pausing on the big main stairway, as they were leaving the house a
few minutes later.

"Oh, I don't know." Barry opened the front door again, and they
stepped out to the porch. "Altogether," he said vaguely, snapping
dead twigs from the heavy unpruned growth of the rose vines,
"altogether, I wouldn't go into it without ten thousand. Five for
the new presses, say, and four to Rogers for the business and good-
will, and something to run on--although," Barry interrupted himself
with a vehemence that surprised her, "although I'll bet that the old
Mail would be paying her own rent and salaries within two months.
The Dispatch doesn't amount to much, and the Star is a regular back
number!" He stood staring gloomily down at the roofs of the village;

Mrs. Burgoyne, a little tired, had seated herself on the top step.