The old gentleman was still wincing from the artlessly subtle stabs he
had suffered a week back in _The Caliph of Simpson Street_. Everybody
within four miles of the postoffice knew who the Caliph was. He had
caught people hiding their smiles. Mentally he was considering a new
drawn head for the _Voice_, with the phrase 'And _The Weekly Gleaner_'
neatly printed just below. There never had been room for two papers in
Sunbury anyway.
Mr Weston was shaking his head. 'May as well sit tight, Nort. What
harm's to be done, is done already. He'll have to come down. We'll get
him then.'
'You haven't got any of his paper here, have you?'
'There was one note. I called that some time ago.'
'Wha'd he do?'
'Paid it. He seems still to have a little something. But he can't last.
Not without advertising.'
'But he's selling his paper fast. If he can keep that up maybe he'll
begin to pick up a little along the street.'