“Bonbright,” said Malcolm Lightener, getting to his feet, “I’m damn disappointed in you.”

“Come in a year and tell me so, then I’ll listen to you,” said Bonbright.

“This nonsense won’t last a year.  It won’t pan out.  You’ll have to give it up, and then what?  You’ll be in a devil of a pickle, won’t you?”

“All you see is that five dollars.  In a day or two the whole plan will be ready.  I’m having it printed in a pamphlet, and I’ll send you one.  If you read it carefully and can come back and tell me it’s nonsense, then I don’t know you.  You might let me go under suspended sentence at least.”

Lightener shrugged his heavy shoulders.  “Take one chunk of advice,” he said.  “Keep away from the club for a few days.  If the boys feel the way I do they’re apt to take you upstairs and drown you in a bathtub.”

That was the side of the affair that Bonbright saw most during the day.  Telephone messages, letters, telegrams, poured in and cluttered his desk.  After a while he ceased to open them, for they were all alike; all sent to say the same thing that Malcolm Lightener had said.  Capital looked upon him as a Judas and flayed him with the sharpest words they could choose.

He read all the papers, but the papers reflected the estimated thought of their subscribers.  But to all of them the news was the big news of the day.  No headline was too large to announce it ...  But the papers, even those with capitalistic leanings, were afraid to be too outspoken.  Gatherers of news come to have some knowledge of human nature, and these men saw deeper and farther and quicker than the Malcolm Lighteners.  They did not commit themselves so far but that a drawing back and realignment would be possible ...  No little part of Bonbright’s day was spent with reporters.

The news came to every house in the city.  It came even to Mrs. Moody’s obscure boarding house, and the table buzzed with it.  It mounted the stairs with Mrs. Moody to the room where Ruth lay apathetically in her bed, not stronger, not weaker, taking no interest in life.

Mrs. Moody sat daily beside Ruth’s bed and talked or read.  She read papers aloud and books aloud, and grumbled.  Ruth paid slight attention, but lay gazing up at the ceiling, or closed her eyes and pretended she was asleep.  She didn’t care what was going on in the world.  What did it matter, for she believed she was going to leave the world shortly.  The prospect did not frighten her, nor did it gladden her.  She was indifferent to it.

Mrs. Moody sat down in her rocker and looked at Ruth triumphantly.  “I’ll bet this’ll interest you,” she said.  “I’ll bet when I read this you won’t lay there and pertend you don’t hear.  If you do it’s because somethin’s wrong with your brains, that’s all I got to say.  Sick or well, it’s news to stir up a corpse.”

She began to read.  The first words caught Ruth’s attention.  The words were Bonbright Foote.  She closed her eyes, but listened.  Her thoughts were not clear; her mental processes were foggy, but the words Mrs. Moody was reading were important to her.  She realized that.  It was something she had once been interested in—­terribly interested in ...  She tried to concentrate on them; tried to comprehend.  Presently she interrupted, weakly: