He took a quick step forward and clapped me on the shoulder as I came up.
"Exactly what I've been thinking," he said eagerly, "and it's going to be a wonderful day."
If ever youth and joy-of-life spoke in a human voice, they spoke that morning in Nort's. I cannot convey the sudden sense it gave me of the roseate illusion of adventure. It was going to be a wonderful day!
I think Nort confidently expected to see a long line of people gathering in front of the office that morning clamouring to buy extra copies of the Star.
He had been so positive that the appearance of the poetry would stir Hempfield to its depths that he had urged the publication of a large extra edition. But the Captain assured him that the only thing that ever really produced an extra sale of the Star was a "big obituary." In its palmy days, when the Captain let himself go, and the deceased was really worthy of the Captain's facile and flowery pen, the Star had sold as many as two hundred extra papers. It was as much a part of any properly conducted funeral in Hempfield to buy copies of the Captain's obituaries—the same issue also containing the advertised thanks of the family to the friends who had been with them in their sore bereavement—as it was for the choir to sing "Lead, Kindly Light."
Fergus, especially, jeered at the proposal of an extra edition. It was not the money loss that disturbed Fergus, for that would be next to nothing at all, it was the thought of being stampeded by Nort's enthusiasm, and afterward hearing the sarcastic comments of Ed Smith. While this heated controversy was going on, Anthy quietly ordered the paper—and we printed the extra copies.
All that morning I saw Nort glancing from time to time out of the window. No line appeared. Nine o'clock—and no line—not even one visitor! Nort fidgeted around the press, emptied the wastebasket, looked at his watch. Ten o'clock——
Steps on the porch—soft, hesitating steps. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Nort stiffen up and his face begin to glow. A little barefooted boy edged his way in at the door. We all looked around at him. I confess that Nort was not the only one who was expectant. When you have fired a big gun you want to know that the shot hit somewhere! The boy was evidently embarrassed by the battery of eyes levelled at him.
"Sister wants two papers," said he finally. "She says, the papers with the po'try."
I shall never forget the sight of Nort, head in air, marching over to the pile of extras, grandly handing two of them to our customer, and then walking triumphantly across the room and delivering the dime to Anthy.