Mr. Murdoch was better. He had had a comfortable night, and felt able to think of business again.
"Now, my dear," he said to his wife, "I'm ready to take a look at the Eagle. I am glad it was a good number."
"They talked about it all last evening at the sociable," she answered, as she handed him a copy.
He was even cheerful, when he began; and he studied the paper as Jack had studied the map. It was a long time before he said a word.
"My account of the flood is really capital," he said, at last, "and all that about Crofield matters. The report of things in Mertonville is good; that about the logs, the dam, the burglary—a very extraordinary occurrence, by the way—it's a blessing they didn't kill Mrs. McNamara. The story is good; funny-column good. But—oh, gracious! Oh, Mary Ogden! Oh my stars! What's this?"
He had begun on the editorials, and he groaned and rolled about while he was reading them.
"They'll mob the Eagle!" he said at last. "I must get up! Oh, but this is dreadful! She's pitched into everything there is! I must get up at once!"
Those editorials were a strong tonic, or else Mr. Murdoch's illness was over. He dressed himself, and walked out into the kitchen. His wife had not heard him say he would get up, but she seemed almost to have expected it.
"It's the way you always do," she said. "I'm never much scared about you. You'll never die till your time comes. I think Mary is over at the office."
"I'm going there, now," he said, excitedly. "If this work goes on, I shall have the whole town about my ears."