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 a flight of imagination would have been impossible for him.

From that day forth Angus missed few Saturdays at the printing office, and on many other afternoons was there—especially Thursdays when the paper went to press. The ninth or tenth Saturday, Peter stopped Angus and offered him fifty cents. Angus took it in his palm, regarded it slowly and shook his head.

“No,” he said slowly, tendering back the coin, “I ain’t—workin’ for—you.”

“What’s that?” demanded Peter in astonishment.

“I’m workin’ for him,” said Angus.

“Who?” asked Peter, but Angus shook his head, nor could Peter induce him to utter Dave Wilkins’ name. The boy never uttered it, seemed to hold it in a sort of reverence as a thing not to be spoken in the ears of strangers and common men.

“By Golly, Bub. I’ll make a printer out of you. I’ll do more than that—I’ll make a newspaper man out of you,” promised Peter, and during the years which came, he was as good as his word. Painstakingly, lovingly, as a sculptor hewing his Moses from Parian marble, Peter Waite labored with Angus, teaching him not only the mechanics but the ethics of the business, instructing him in its ideals and higher functions,