The next day it was as though he were arranging his own funeral,
with but little hope of a resurrection. The tax-collector met him
when he came downstairs--having seen his name on the register.
"You know," he said, "I'll have to add 5 per cent. next month."
Hale smiled.
"That won't be much more," he said, and the collector, a new one,
laughed good-naturedly and with understanding turned away.
Mechanically he walked to the Club, but there was no club--then on
to the office of The Progress--the paper that was the boast of the
town. The Progress was defunct and the brilliant editor had left
the hills. A boy with an ink-smeared face was setting type and a
pallid gentleman with glasses was languidly working a hand-press.
A pile of fresh-smelling papers lay on a table, and after a
question or two he picked up one. Two of its four pages were
covered with announcements of suits and sales to satisfy
judgments--the printing of which was the raison d'etre of the
noble sheet. Down the column his eye caught John Hale et al. John
Hale et al., and he wondered why "the others" should be so
persistently anonymous.
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