commercial bitterness against the paper was
somewhat mollified, Hal reckoned that he could pull through--if it were
not for the Pierce suits. There was the crux of the situation. Nothing
was being done about them. They had been postponed more than once, on
motion of Pierce's counsel. Now they hung over Hal's head in a suspense
fast becoming unbearable. At length he decided that, in fairness to his
staff, he should warn them of the situation.

He chose, for the explanation, one of the Talk-It-Over Breakfasts, the
first one which McGuire Ellis, released temporarily from the hospital
for the occasion, had attended since his wound. He sat at Hal's right,
still pale and thin, but with his look of bulldog obstinacy
undiminished; enhanced, rather, by the fact that one ear had been
sharpened to a canine pointedness by the missile which had so narrowly
grazed his life. Ellis had been goaded to a pitch of high exasperation
by the solicitude and attentions of his fellows. It was his emphatically
expressed opinion that the whole gathering lay under a blight of
superlative youthfulness. In his mind he exempted Hal, over whose
silence and distraction he was secretly worried. The cause was explained
when the chairman rose to close the meeting.

"There is something I have to say," he said. "I've put it off longer
than I should. I may have to give up the 'Clarion.' It depends upon the
outcome of the libel suits brought by E.M. Pierce. If, as we fear, Miss
Cleary, the nurse who was run over, testifies for the prosecution, we
can't win. Then it's only a question of the size of the damages. A big
verdict would mean the ruin of the paper, I'm telling you this so that
you may have time to look for new jobs."

There was a long silence. Then a melancholy, musing voice said: "Gee!
That's tough! Just as the paper pulled off the Home Week stunt, too."

"How much of a verdict would bust us?" asked another.

"Twenty-five thousand dollars," said Hal, "together with lawyers' fees.
I couldn't go on."

"Say, I know that old hen of a nurse," said one of the sporting writers,
with entire seriousness. "Wonder if it'd do any good to marry her?"

A roar went up from the table at this, somewhat relieving the tension of
the atmosphere.

Shearson, the advertising manager, lolling deep in his chair, spoke up
diffidently, as soon as he could be heard:

"I ain't rich. But I've put a little wad aside. I could chip in three
thou' if that'd help."

"I'v