“Pierce’s political pull is certainly working,” observed Ellis, “but it’s coarse work.”

Finer was to come.  Two libel suits mushroomed into view in as many days, provoked, as it were, out of conscious nothing; unimportant but harassing:  one, brought by a ne’er-do-well who had broken a leg while engaged in a drunken prank months before, the other the outcome of a paragraph on a little, semi-fraudulent charity.

“I’ll bet that eminent legal light, Mr. William Douglas, could tell something about these,” said Ellis, “though his name doesn’t appeal on the papers.”

“We’ll print these, too,—­and we’ll tell the reason for them,” said Hal.

But on this last point his assistant dissuaded him.  The efficient argument was that it would look like whining, and the one thing which a newspaper must not do was to lament its own ill-treatment.

On top of the libel suits came a letter from the Midland National Bank, stating with perfect courtesy that, under its present organization, a complicated account like that of the “Clarion” was inconvenient to handle; wherefore the bank was reluctantly obliged to request its withdrawal.

“Bottling us up financially,” remarked Ellis.  “I expected this, before.”

“There are other banks than the Midland that’ll be glad of our business,” replied Hal.

“Probably not.”

“No?  Then they’re curious institutions.”

“There isn’t one of ’em in which Elias M. Pierce isn’t a controlling factor.  Ask your father.”

On the following day when Dr. Surtaine, who had been out of town for several days, dropped in at the office, Hal had a memorandum ready on the point.  The old quack eased himself into a chair with his fine air of ample leisure, creating for himself a fragrant halo of cigar smoke.

“Well, Boyee.”  The tone was a mingling of warm affection and semi-humorous reproach.  “You went and did it to Elias M., didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.  We went and did it.”

The Doctor shook his head, looking at the other through narrowing eyes.  “And it’s worrying you.  You’re not looking right.”

“Oh, I’m well enough:  a little sleeplessness, that’s all.”

He did not deem it necessary to tell his father that upon his white nights the unforgettable face of Esme Elliot had gleamed persistently from out the darkness, banishing rest.

“Suppose you let me do some of the worrying, Boyee.”

“Haven’t you enough troubles in your own business, Dad?” smiled Hal.

“Machinery, son.  Automatic, at that.  Runs itself and turns out the dollars, regular, for breakfast.  Very different from the newspaper game.”

“I should like your advice.”

“On the take-it-or-leave-it principle, I suppose,” answered Dr. Surtaine, with entire good humor.  “In the Pierce matter you left it.  How do you like the results?”

“Not very much.”