"Who was that now?" asked Nort, when the little chap went out.
"That," said Anthy, "was Sophia Rhineheart's brother."
Nort clapped his hand dramatically to his head.
"The false Sophia!" he exclaimed; "I expected that Sophia would want at least fifty copies of the journal which has made her famous."
The next incident was even more disquieting. An old man named Johnson came to put a twenty-cent advertisement in the paper "Ten Cords of Wood for Sale"—and it appeared, after an adroit question by Nort, that, although he had received that week's paper, he did not even know that we had published the Poems of Hempfield.
Nort's spirits began to drop, as his face plainly showed. Like many young men who start out to set the world afire, he was finding the kindling wood rather damp. Just before noon, however, answering a telephone call, we saw his eyes brighten perceptibly.
"Thank you," he was saying. "Ten, did you say? All right, you shall have them. Glad you called early before they are all gone."
He put down the receiver, smiling broadly.
"There," he said, "it's started!"
"Humph," grunted Fergus, and Anthy, leaning back on her stool, laughed merrily.