“You seem to have forgotten something along the way, too,” Shipman said.

“What’s that, Verne?”

“I own the controlling stock in the Messenger. You’re working for me.”

“Well?”

“I want the newspaper to support Adam Cramer and SNAP. All the way.”

Tom looked at Shipman for several seconds. Then he said, “Before I took over as editor, the Messenger had a circulation of two thousand. It was coming out three times a month and losing money. Six months later the circulation was twelve thousand. Now it’s over twenty. We’re in the black. And we’ve won three prizes for outstanding journalism. In all that time, you never set foot in the office or even bothered to write me a letter. Are you going to tell me how to run a newspaper now?”

Shipman wavered between uncertain anger and conciliation. “It isn’t that, Tom,” he said. “You’ve done a fine job, and I wouldn’t deny it. I’m not telling you how to run the newspaper . . .”

“Then what are you telling me?”

“It’s a matter of basic policy, that’s all. Plant a few ads, build up Cramer a little—hell, that can’t hurt.”

“What if I refuse to run the ad? What if I tell you right now that I plan to do everything in my power to get rid of Cramer and his organization?”

Shipman drew himself up unsteadily. “We’ve been friends for a good long time, Tom,” he said. “But if you told me that, I’d have to ask for your resignation.”

“That’s the way it is?”

“That’s the way it is.” Shipman hesitated. “Well?” he asked. “What are you going to do?”

Tom thought of the job that was waiting for him in New York, then of Ruth and Ella, of his home, of the years that he had spent growing to love this town, this country.

“I don’t seem to have much choice,” he said, and hated himself for saying it. He hated the weakness that had come over his legs. All the way to Shipman’s house he had told himself that he would lay it on the line. Things would be run his way, and if Shipman didn’t like it, he could get himself another boy.

But then it had gone wrong.

“All I ask, Tom,” Verne Shipman said, smiling, “is just a few little plugs. You’re still the editor!”

The big man saw him to the front door, a thick arm resting on his shoulder.

“We’ll have this rotten business cleaned up fast. You wait and see. Caxton is a town the world won’t soon forget!”

Tom walked down the gravel path to his car, feeling as he had often felt years ago when he was young, struggling with a mind full of questions and no one in the world to answer the questions.