"Man by the name of Gerhart, mile and a half west of town--that would
bring him pretty near the river--offers his quarter for three hundred
dollars. He's been there about four years, wife died this spring. I
think he's got about eighty acres broken out. Some of that land ought to
be in pretty good shape for wheat by now."

As the day was declining to evening, and Judge Thayer's supper hour was
near, they agreed on postponing until morning the drive out to look at
the dissatisfied settler's land. Morgan was leaving when the judge
called him back from the door.

"I was just wondering whether you'd ever had any editorial experience?"
he said.

"No, I've never been an editor," Morgan returned, speculating alertly on
what might be forthcoming.

"We--our editor--our editor," said the judge, fumbling with it as
if he found the matter a difficult one to fit to the proper words,
"fell into an unfortunate error of judgment a short time ago,
with--um-m-m--somewhat melancholy--melancholy--" the judge paused, as if
feeling of this word to see that it fitted properly, head bent
thoughtfully--"results. Unlucky piece of business for this community,
coming right in the thick of the contest for the county seat. There's a
fight on here, Mr. Morgan, as you may have heard, between Ascalon, the
present county seat, and Glenmore, a God-abandoned little flyspeck on
the map seven miles south of here."

"I hadn't heard of it. And what happened to the editor?"

"Oh, one of our hot-headed boys shot him," said the judge, out of
patience with such trivial and hasty yielding to passion. "Since then
I've been getting out the paper myself--I hold a mortgage on the
property, I'll be obliged to foreclose to protect myself--with the help
of the printer. It's not much of a paper, Morgan, for I haven't got the
time to devote to it with the July term of court coming on, but I have
to get it out every week or lose the county printing contract. There's a
hungry dog over at Glenmore looking on to snatch the bone on the least
possible excuse, and he's got two of the county commissioners with him."

"No, I'm not an editor," Morgan repeated, speculatively, as if he saw
possibilities of distinction in that road.

"Without the press, we are a community disarmed in the midst of our
enemies," said the judge. "Glenmore will overwhelm us and rob us of our
rights, without a champion whose voice is as the voice of a thousand
men."

"I'd never be equal to that,