Mr. Silcox the tobacconist hurried through the lamplight,
unquestionably on his way to the Gauntlet. Silcox was a chattering
foolish creature who had lost his own and his widowed mother's savings
in a ridiculous commercial enterprise--a promptly bankrupt theater
company over at Rodhaven--and it was thought that the workhouse would
be the end for him and Mrs. Silcox. But early this summer people had
been startled by hearing that the _Courier_ had appointed Silcox as
their reporter; and local critics were of opinion that Silcox had
taken very kindly to literature, and that he was shaping well, and
might perhaps retrieve the past in making name and fortune. Dale, who
used to chaff Silcox rather heavily, was at present quite polite to
him. It had always been Will's policy to stand well with the press,
and there was no doubt that during the recent controversy Silcox had
endeavored to render aid with his pen.
Lamplight moving now--a cart coming down. Mavis, peering out, saw that
it was old Mr. Bates again, in a gig this time, going home to his
pretty little farm two miles off on the Hadleigh Road. Fancy his being
still at it so late, only finishing the day's work long after so many
younger men had done.
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