“I must read that wonderful article again,” quoth the admiring Thad.  “It’s simply great the way Jim’s written it up, and I’m sure that chap is bound to occupy an exalted place in newspaperdom down in New York one of these days when luck comes to him, and he emigrates that way.”

They scanned it line by line until they could almost repeat the whole story by heart, it made such a great impression on them.  Thad seemed more than amused over the idea that the good folks from Scranton would swallow it whole, and believe there was really a Texan marshal in their midst, looking right and left for a desperate character who had dropped down in that quiet and respectable neighborhood, thinking he would be safe from molestation there.

“Why, Hugh,” he went on to say, exuberantly, “all today I warrant you hundreds of people here, women as well as boys and men, will be scanning every party who happens to be wearing a felt bat anything like the one Marshal Hastings is said to possess; and wondering if the stranger from Mechanicsville, or Allandale, or any other old place can be the wonderful Texan official, who according to Jim’s graphic account has notches cut on the stocks of both his big revolvers to indicate just how many bad men he has been compelled to lay low during the course of his long and thrilling public career.  Oh!  I feel just as if I wanted to drop down and laugh till my sides ached, it’s such a rich joke.  That Jim will kill me yet with his wonderful write-ups.”

Hugh was apparently also highly amused, but he did not lose sight of the main facts in the case, as his next remark proved.

“Remember we settled it that we’d be around to look Jim up about half-past eight, instead of nine o’clock this morning.  Thad, it’s getting near that time now, so perhaps we’d better be moving.  Jim might feel like starting a bit early, so as to give him more time later on for his regular duties.  You see, being left in sole charge of the office while Mr. Hanks is away makes him responsible for even the job printing.”

Thad was only too glad for an excuse for an earlier start.

“If we have to do any loafing,” he went on to say, philosophically, “we can put in the time at the Courier office, just as well as anywhere else.  I always did want to mosey around that place, and while Mr. Hanks is away, perhaps I’ll have a chance to handle a few type, and watch the regular comp work like lightning.  The smell of printers’ ink seems to draw me, Hugh, to tell you the honest truth.”

Although Thad possibly did not know it at the time, that fascination has been responsible for many a noted editor’s career, as the lure of printers’ ink, when it gets a firm hold on any one, can seldom be shaken off in after years.  Once a newspaper man and it becomes a lifetime pursuit.  But then, of course, Thad might be only imagining such things, and the dim future hold out other possibilities for a career that would be far removed from an editor’s chair.