"We've got to fill
her solid some way, though I give up; I don't know how. How that man has
worked! It was genius. He just floated around the county and soaked in
items, and he wrote editorials that people read. One thing's certain: we
can't do it. We're ruining his paper for him, and when he gets able to
read, it'll hurt him bad. Mighty few knew how much pride he had in it. Has
it struck you that now would be a precious good time for it to occur to
Rod McCune to come out of his hole? Suppose we go by the board, what's to
stop him? What's to stop him, anyway? Who knows where the boss put those
copies and affidavits, and if we did know, would we know the best way to
use 'em? If we did, what's to keep the 'Herald' alive until McCune lifts
his head? And if we don't stop him, the 'Carlow County Herald' is
finished. Something's got to be done!'"
No one realized this more poignantly than Mr. Fisbee, but no one was less
capable of doing something of his own initiation. And although the Tuesday
issue was forthcoming, embarrassingly pale in spots--most spots--Mr.
Martin remarked rather publicly that the items were not what you might
call stirring, and that the unpatented pages put him in mind of Jones's
field in winter with a dozen chunks of coal dropped in the snow. And his
observations on the later issues of the week (issues which were put forth
with a suggestion of spasm, and possibly to the permanent injury of Mr.
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