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By Root 1788 0

so that I had to get up and walk about. The men in the newspaper office were great ones for spitting, and what with that and the litter and the ink and the mud of boots, the floor of the office was filthy. But now that I was a man, I didn’t mind such things all that much anymore. I strolled around and contemplated this as a way of distracting myself from the bad news of home. The fact was, with Governor Robinson in prison, Lane had been the only one doing anything. Even folks with long-standing doubts of his competency, or his sanity, had come around to him over the summer, just because he was busy and we needed someone to be busy. But if these stories were true, then he showed himself to be a fool. And I knew they were true, because he had showed himself to be a fool before.

Someone noticed me, one of the other men who wrote for the paper. He was a wiry little man with a large head, on which he had pushed his hat far back. He said, "What’s your name, son?"

I whispered, "Arquette. Lyman Arquette."

"That’s right, you got some affliction with your voice box. Jack told me about it. Well, you done a good job on your piece, son. I read it. Now, some of us newspapermen, we take different names to write under, and Franklin wants to know what name you want on your piece, here." Franklin was the typesetter.

I croaked, "Different names?"

"Well, yeah. Now, I got three names I write under. One is my own, another is ’A Bona Fide Westerner,’ and the third is ’Irascible.’ That’s for when I really get goin’, you know, and my words are a little hot. Fact is, these three names got three different personalities, and I can get three articles into one paper if I have to, and nobody knows that I wrote ’em all. We all do. I may say that most of the time I can tell about the others, but most of the time they cain’t tell about me. I could have four or five names if I wanted, but Jack don’t like that. Anyway—"

"Lyman Arquette is fine."

"Now, boy, take it from me, you got to cover yourself a bit here. My suggestion is ’Young and Eager,’ or some such thing. ’Young and Loyal to the Cause,’ mebbe. Gives you a character, don’t ya know, and makes it easier to write your piece, if you ask me." He tucked his thumbs in his braces and rocked back on his heels. "It’s tempting to see your own name in print, but out here it’s a little dangerous."

"How about Thomas Newton?" I don’t know why I betrayed Thomas in this way, except that he was very much in my mind all the time, and it was a pleasure to say his name aloud.

"Now, that’s downright dull, son. Say, though, what about ’Isaac Newton’? You heard of him, right? You put that on your piece, and folks’ll pay attention to it, even if they don’t know who he is or what he did. Most of ’em have heard that name and know he was something."

And so my piece was published under the name "Isaac Newton."

And Mr. Morton, joking, took to calling me "Sir."

I heard nothing of Chaney or Samson that evening, and by and by I was so hungry that I couldn’t stay anymore but went off to find something to eat for my supper.

Back at the livery stable, I had hidden my case in what had appeared to be a disused trunk of some sort, in which there were dusty bits of harness and a blanket or two. I found it sure enough, but as I was pulling it out, thinking distractedly of Thomas, the Negro man who oversaw the place came up behind me and put his hand on my arm.

I started, set my case down, and turned around.

"Nah, young massa, ya cain’t sleep heah na mah." This surprised me, since he hadn’t said anything when I’d taken Athens away.

I shook my head, pretending to understand him less than I actually did.

"Got ta be off, massa. This is Massa Harry’s livery. Ain’ nabody ’lowed to sleep in da hay. You done it once, but I ain’ gonna ’low it agin."

I croaked, "I’ll help you with the horses."

"You sick, young massa?" He stepped back.

I put my hand to my throat—this was almost a reflex by now, and anyway, croaking was making my throat a little raw. "No, just hurt myself when I was a baby. I can help you throw out the hay to the