“All right.  They’ve got him in a clove hitch.  At least it looks so.  And one of the conditions for letting up on him is that he suppresses all news of the epidemic.  Then they’ll have the ‘Clarion’ right where they’ve got every other local paper.”

“Nice town, Worthington,” observed Dr. Elliot, with easy but apparently irrelevant affability.

But McGuire Ellis went red.  “It’s easy enough for you to sit there and be righteous,” he said.  “But get this straight.  If the young Boss plays straight and tells ’em all to go to hell, it’ll be a close call of life or death for the paper.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Easy going.  Advertising’ll roll in on us.  Money’ll come so fast we can’t dodge it.  Are you so blame sure what you’d do in those conditions?”

“Mac,” said the brusque physician, for the first time using the familiar name:  “between man and man, now:  what about the boy?”

From the ancient loyalty of his race sprang McGuire Ellis’s swift word, “My hand in the fire for any that loves him.”

“But—­stanch, do you think?” persisted the other.

“I hope it.”

“Well, I wish it was you owned the ‘Clarion.’”

“Do you, now?  I don’t.  How do I know what I’d do?”

“Human lives, Mac:  human lives, on this issue.”

“Who else knows it’s typhus, Doc?”

“Nobody but Merritt and me.  You bound me in confidence, you know.”

“Good man!”

“There’s one other ought to know, though.”

“Who’s that?”

“Norman Hale.”

“The Reverend Norman’s all right.  We could do with a few more ministers like him around the place.  But why, in particular, should he know?”

“For one thing, he suspects, anyway.  Then, he’s down in the slums there most of the time, and he could help us.  Besides, he’s got some rights of safety himself.  He’s out in the reception room now, under guard of that man-eating office boy of yours.”

“All right, if you say so.”

Accordingly the Reverend Norman Hale was summoned, sworn to confidence, and informed.  He received the news with a quiver of his long, gaunt features.  “I was afraid it was something like that,” he said.  “What’s to be done?”

“I’ll tell you my plan,” said Ellis, who had been doing some rapid thinking.  “I’ll put the best man in the office on the story, and give him a week on it if necessary.  How soon is the epidemic likely to break, Doctor?”

“God knows,” said the physician gravely.

“Well, we’ll hurry him as much as we can.  Our reporter will work independently.  No one else on the staff will know what he’s doing.  I’ll expect you two and Dr. Merritt to give him every help.  I’ll handle the story myself, at this end.  And I’ll see that it’s set up in type by our foreman, whom I can trust to keep quiet.  Therefore, only six people will know about it.  I think we can keep the secret.  Then, when I’ve got it all in shape, two pages of it, maybe, with all the facts, I’ll pull a proof and hit the Boss right between the eyes with it.  That’ll fetch him, I think.”