When George Thomas came in, one blustery March day, to say that if the turnips were all gone, he would bring in some more, Ellis pied Judge Bowers's speech on the duties of the Village Fathers to the alleys, when he saw the malignant look that Jap cast upon the cheery farmer.
Once a week Bill and Jap drew straws to determine which one should fare forth in quest of funds, and for the first time in his brief business career, Jap was glad the depressing task had fallen to him. "Pi" was likely to bring on an acute attack of mental indigestion, and the boy had learned to dread Ellis Hinton's infrequent but illuminating flame of wrath.
The catastrophe had been blotted out, the last stickful of type had been set and Bill had gone home to supper when Jap, leg-weary and discouraged, wandered into the office. Ellis looked up from the form he was adjusting.
"How did you ever pick out this town?" the boy complained, turning the result of his day's collection on the table.
Ellis turned from the bit of pine he was whittling, a makeshift depressingly familiar to the country editor. He scanned the meager assortment of coins with anxious eye. Jap's lower jaw dropped.
"I'll have to fire you if you haven't got enough to pay for the paper."
"Got enough for that," said Jap mournfully, "but not enough for meat."
"Didn't Loghman owe for his ad?" Ellis demanded. "Did you ask him for it?"
"Says you owe him more 'n he's willin' for you to owe," Jap ventured.
Ellis sighed.