“We aren’t talking about me,” Earl said huffily.

“You’re not,” Gabe agreed, “because you know it will undercut your case. I don’t care that you were a hellion. In fact, I’m all for it, as you know.” He grinned. “I just think you ought to allow Randall a shot at a little hell-raising-before you croak and make sure he never gets a day off.”

“You think I’m about to stick my spoon in the wall?”

“Does that mean die? No, probably not. But someday you’re going to. And if Randall hasn’t lived, who can tell what he might do with the Stanton legacy, with all those ‘burdens’ and ‘responsibilities’ you keep loading on him. He might just throw it all away!”

Earl’s face turned bright red. “Randall would never-!”

“How do you know? Have you ever let him out past ten o’clock? Except on business?”

Gabe never heard the answer to that question because the next moment the library door opened and Randall returned. A satisfied smile lit his often sober face. “We’ve done it. We’ve got the Gazette!”

“Another Gazette?” Gabe groaned. “How many Gazettes, Echoes, Advertisers, Recorders and whatever else does that make?”

Stanton Publishing specialized in local newspapers, and owned eighty, all over the country.

“This is the Buckworthy Gazette,” Randall said triumphantly. “We’ve been after it for years.”

“Ah.” Gabe nodded in comprehension. The family seat was situated near the little town of Buckworthy, right down south in the county of Devon. It had always galled the Stantons that they couldn’t get their hands on the paper for their own locality. Now, at long last, Randall had triumphed.

Earl, of course, was over the moon. He leapt from his chair, rejuvenated, and slapped his grandson on the back, hollering his delight.