ifield looked from one to the
other, repeating his assertion as if signing a verbal contract. Then his
gaze wandered off into nowhere, and he absently fed himself and waited
for the spirit to move further.

"I'll furnish the capital," he continued deliberately, at length, "and
it won't be money, either." The three faces watching him fell. "That is,
not much money. It'll take a little, of course. I think I know where I
could get all the money I want--a dozen places, yes, fifty of them. But
this isn't a money scheme. If it was I could get it. I know any number
of men, capitalists, that would jump at it. But that isn't what we want.
We want men who know what a paper is, and can do the work themselves."

"We want a good advertising man first," said Perner the businesslike.

"That's good sense," assented Barrifield, at which Perner felt
complimented and began to assume proprietary airs.

"Those things we can hire," Barrifield continued. "We shall want several
men in clerical and executive positions. The general direction and
management of affairs we shall, of course, attend to personally. We
could get a business manager with all the money we need if we wanted
him, but he'd be some fellow with no appreciation of the kind of a paper
we intend to make, and would try to cut down and stick to old methods
until he choked the plan, just as many a good plan has been killed
before."

The third bottle of champagne had been opened.

"That's exactly right," declared Perner, as he lifted his glass, while
the others nodded. "Half the periodicals running to-day are starved and
killed by the business office. Why, MacWilliams of 'Dawn' told me
yesterday that he couldn't buy that Easter poem of mine just because
there had been a kick down-stairs on the twenty-five he paid me for the
Christmas thing, and--"

"What's your scheme, Barry?" interrupted Van Dorn, who did not want
Perner to get started on the perennial subject of editorial wrongs.

Barrifield filled his glass and drained it very slowly. Then he set it
down and wiped his lips with his napkin. The waiter brought coffee and
cigars. He selected a long, dark Panetela, and lighted it with the air
of one making ready to unburden himself of deep wisdom.

"Did any of--you--fellows," he began, puffing the smoke into the air and
following it with his eyes, "ever hear of a man named Frisby? Did you,
Perny? Did you, Stony?" dropping his eyes from one to the other.

"I have," said Van