Haynerd blinked for a few moments, like an owl in the light. But then, as a comprehension of Hitt’s plan dawned upon his waking thought, he straightened up.
“Buy the Express! Make a real paper of it! A––but Ames?”
“He can’t touch us! The clientele of the Express will not be made up of his puppets! Our paper will be for the people!”
“But––your University work, Hitt?”
“I give my last lecture next week.”
“And you, Carmen?”
“I was only biding my time,” she replied gently. “This is a real call. And my answer is: Here am I.”
Tears began to trickle slowly down Haynerd’s cheeks, as the tension in his nerves slackened. He rose and seized the hands of his two friends. “Hitt,” he said, in a choking voice, “I––I said I was a fool. But that fellow’s dead now. The real man has waked up, and––well, what are you standing there for, you great idiot? Go and call up Carlson!”
Again that evening the little group sat about the table in the dining room of the Beaubien cottage. But only the three most directly concerned, and the Beaubien, knew that the owner of the Express had received that afternoon an offer for the purchase of his newspaper, and that he had been given twenty-four hours in which to accept it. Doctor Morton was again present; and beside him sat his lifelong friend and jousting-mate, 77 the very Reverend Patterson Moore. Hitt took the floor, and began speaking low and earnestly.