horses. Days when books were often represented by a bank-book and a
roughly-kept day-book. What need to keep mighty ledgers when profits are
great and returns quick in their returning?

As the pedestrians made their way along the narrow pavement some of them
glanced at the door of the tall red-brick house and read the inscription
on a brass plate screwed thereon. This consisted of two mystic words:
_The Beacon_. There was, however, in reality, no mystery about it.
The _Beacon_ was a newspaper, published weekly, and the clock of
St. Dunstan's striking seven told the end of another week. The
publishing day was past; another week with its work and pleasure was to
be faced.

From early morning until six o'clock in the evening this narrow doorway
and passage had been crowded by a heaving, swearing, laughing mass of
more or less dilapidated humanity interested in the retail sale of
newspapers. At six o'clock Ephraim Bander, a retired constable, now on
the staff of the _Beacon_, had taken his station at the door, in
order to greet would-be purchasers with the laconic and discouraging
words: "Sold hout!"

During the last two years ex-constable Bander had announced the selling
"hout" of the _Beacon_ every Tuesday evening.

At seven o'clock Mrs. Bander emerged from her den on the fourth floor,
like a portly good-natured spider, and with a broom proceeded to attack
the dust shaken from the boots of the journalistic fraternity, with
noisy energy. After that she polished the door-plate; and peace reigned
within the narrow house.