"Are you kidding? My ambition is to make the Pic into a real newspaper," Junior said, "but Dad wants to keep it like it was a hundred years ago. He was counting on us kids to keep up the tradition, but my brother went out to California and got into advertising, and my sister married a rancher in Montana, so I'm stuck with it."

"The county could support a real newspaper. Why not start one and let your father keep the Picayune as a hobby? You wouldn't be competing; the Pic is in a class by itself. Did you ever consider anything like that?"

Junior threw him a look of panic, and the words tumbled out. "I couldn't afford to start a lemonade stand! We're broke! That's why I'm working for peanuts... Every year we go further in the hole. Dad's been selling our farmland, and now he's mortgaged the farmhouse... I shouldn't be telling you this... Mother's been after him for a long time to unload the paper... She's really upset! But Dad won't listen. He keeps right on setting type and going deeper in the red. He says it's his life-his reason for living... Did you ever see him set type? He can set more than thirty-five letters a minute without looking at the typecase." Junior's face reflected his admiration.

"Yes, I've watched him, and I'm impressed," Qwilleran said. "I've also seen your presses in the basement. Some of the equipment looks like Gutenberg's winepress."

"Dad collects old presses. He has a whole barnful. My great-grandfather's first press operated with a treadle like an old sewing machine."

"Would your rich grandmother come to the rescue financially, if you wanted to start a newspaper?"

"Grandma Gage won't fork over any more dough. She's already bailed us out a couple of times and paid our insurance premiums and put three of us through college... Hey, why don't you start a newspaper, Qwill? You're loaded!"

"I have absolutely no interest in or aptitude for business matters, Junior. That's why I set up the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund. They handle everything and give me a little pocket money. I spent twenty-five years on newspapers, and now all I want is the time and the quietude to do some writing."

"How's your book coming?"

"Okay," said Qwilleran, thinking of his neglected typewriter and cluttered desk and disorganized notes.

At the airport they parked in the open field that served as long-term parking lot. The terminal was little more than a shack, and the airport manager — who was also ticket agent, mechanic, and part-time pilot — was sweeping the floor. "Are we gonna get the Big One?" he asked cheerfully.

When the two newsmen boarded the twin-engine plane for the first leg of their journey, they were smart enough to avoid personal conversation. There were fifteen other passengers, and thirty ears would be listening. Moose County had a grapevine that disseminated more news than the Picayune and transmitted it faster than WPKX. Judiciously, Qwilleran and Junior talked about sports until the small plane bumped to a landing in Minneapolis and they boarded a jet.

"I hope they serve lunch on board," Junior said. "What are we having for dinner at the Press Club?"

"I've ordered French onion soup, prime rib, and apple pie."

"Oh, wow!"

There was a layover in Chicago before they took off on the final leg of the journey. By the time they landed and rode the coach to the Hotel Stilton and tuned in the weather reports, it was time to go to the Press Club.

"Will the sportswriters be there?" Junior asked.

"Everyone — from the top executives to the newest copyboy. I suppose they're called copy-facilitators now."

"Will they think it's corny if I ask for autographs?"

"They'll be flattered," Qwilleran said.

At the club Qwilleran was treated as a returning hero, but he reminded himself that anyone would be a hero if he staked the entire staff to dinner and an open bar. A photographer gave him a chummy poke in the ribs and asked how it felt to be a millionaire.

"I’ll let you know next year, on April fifteenth," Qwilleran replied.

The travel editor wanted to know how he enjoyed living in the outback. "Isn't Moose County in the Snow Belt?"

"Absolutely! It's the buckle of the Snow Belt."

"Well, anyway, you lucky dog, you've escaped the violence of the city."

"We have plenty of violence up north," Qwilleran informed him. "Tornadoes, lightning, hurricanes, forest fires, wild animals, falling trees, spring floods! But nature's violence is easier to accept than human violence. We never have any mad snipers picking off kids on the school bus, like the incident here last week."

"Do you still have the cat that's smarter than you are?" Around the Press Club, Qwilleran had a reputation as an amateur detective; it was also known that Koko was somewhat responsible for his success.

Qwilleran explained to Junior, "Maybe you didn't notice, but Koko's picture is hanging in the lobby, along with the Pulitzer Prize winners. Someday I'll tell you about his exploits. You won't believe it, but I'll tell you anyway."

During the happy hour Junior met the columnists and reporters whose copy he read in the outstate edition of the Fluxion, and he could hardly control his excitement. The guest of honor, on the other hand, was noticeably subdued. Arch Riker was glad to cut loose from the Fluxion, but the occasion was saddened by the recent breakup of his marriage.

"What are your plans?" Qwilleran asked.

"Well, I'll spend Thanksgiving with my son in Denver and Christmas with my daughter in Oregon. After that, I don't know."

After the prime rib and apple pie, the executive editor presented Riker with a gold watch, and Qwilleran paid a tribute to his longtime friend. He concluded with a few words about Moose County.

"Ladies and gentlemen, most of you have never heard of Moose County. It's the only underground county in the state. Cartographers sometimes forget to put it on the map. Many of our legislators think it belongs to Canada. Yet, a hundred years ago Moose County was the richest in the state, thanks to mining and lumbering. Today it's a vacation paradise for anyone interested in fishing, hunting, boating, and camping. We have two unique features I'd like to point out: perfect temperatures from May to October, and a newspaper that hasn't changed since it was founded over a century ago. Junior Goodwinter, the youngest managing editor in captivity, writes all the copy himself. In an age of satellite communication it's not easy to write with a goose quill and cuttlefish ink... May I introduce Junior and the Pickax Picayune!"

Junior snatched his baseball cap and sack of papers and dashed about the dining room shouting, "Wuxtree! Wuxtree!" while throwing a clutch of papers on each table. The guests grabbed them and started to read first with chuckles, then with guffaws. One page 1, in column 1, they found the classified ads:

FOR SALE: Used two-by-fours in good shape. Also a size 14 wedding dress, never been worn.

HURRY! If your old clunker won't make it through another winter, maybe you'll find a better clunker at Hackpole's Used Car Lot, or maybe you won't. Can't tell till you look 'em over.

FREE: Three gray kittens, one with white boots. Almost housebroke.

JUST ARRIVED: New shipment of long johns at Bill's Family Store. Quality ain't what it used to be, and prices are up from last year, but what the heck! Better buy before snow flies.

Sharing the front page with these examples of truth-in-advertising were news items with headlines an eighth of an inch high.

RECORD NEARLY BROKEN There were 75 cars in Captain Fugtree's funeral procession last week-longest since 1904, when 52 buggies and 37 carriages paraded to the cemetery to bury Ephraim Goodwinter.

BRIDAL SHOWER GIVEN

Miss Doreen Mayfus was honored at a shower last Thursday. Games were played and prizes awarded. The bride-to-be opened 24 presents. Refreshments included sausage rolls, pimiento sandwiches, and wimpy-diddles.