Four months after Tom Dennis had vanished from Marshville, the dingy¹ and shut-up office of The Clarion² was reopened. Dennis had returned—and he had not returned alone. The mortgage held by banker Dribble³ was cancelled. A new linotype machine was installed in The Clarion's dingy back room. The first issue of the paper announced that it was back again to stay. And it stayed!  
Also, some very good farms along the river were purchased by a gentleman named Nickers. Mr. Nickers announced that he was a retired⁴ sea-captain and was now about to take up the profession of farming Mother Earth—the dream of every sea-faring man alive.
 
Each afternoon at five minutes of two, Mr. Nickers would stride down the street and enter the office of The Clarion. The wide front office was now divided into two rooms. Mr. Nickers invariably passed to the second room and entered, closing the door behind him.
 
One afternoon, however, he came slightly earlier than usual. Tom Dennis, who was in the second room, shook hands heartily⁵. In the corner by the window that overlooked Main Street sat a man of huge physique and massive features; this man was able to move only with difficulty and by aid of a stick. Miles Hathaway would never be the man he had been, but at least he could get about. Modern surgeons can do much that appears miraculous⁶ to the layman⁷.
 
Hathaway held up his big fist and exchanged a hearty⁸ grip with Nickers; then he lifted a rugged⁹ booming voice in a shout that rattled¹⁰ the plate-glass window.
 
"Jerry! Where's that— Oh, here you are!"
 
"Yes, sir," meekly¹¹ responded a moon-faced lad, popping in at the door. He was clad in printer's apron¹² and had a very dirty face, as is the rightful heritage of every printer's devil who is yet passing through the "type lice" jest of hoary¹³ memory. But he was manifestly a very h............