"Mr. Quirk does not believe it is from your son," said Kathleen.
"Who but Denis would call me mother?" she asked. "But himself was just saying that to annoy you; don'tbe taking too much notice of him. Read it, dearie. Let me hear my boy speaking to me again."
"I have prospered and made a fortune in America. I am coming home to look after you and the father. Prepare to pack up and come with me to a better home than the old one in Collingwood. I have been wanting all these years to have the old mother, who sacrificed herself for me, beside me."
"And why not sacrifice myself for him? Wasn't he my only child? And a dear boy—and good. Didn't my heart all but break with joy when I first saw him serving the good priest's Mass! It was Father Healy's himself, no less. Does he say anything about the Faith?" asked Mrs. Quirk.
"I shall buy a fine home, with the church not half a mile away. You can make the church your second home, as you did in Collingwood," read Kathleen.
Samuel Quirk marched relentlessly into the room, his face showing the most determined incredulity it could assume.
"Let me see the letter," he said, calmly taking it from Kathleen.
"Could Denis write like this?" he asked.
"And who better?" cried Mrs. Quirk. "Wasn't he the smartest boy at school? Do you remember the day he won all those prizes?"
A smile of pride overspread the old man's face for one moment, then he remorselessly subdued it.
"I am thinking it is some scamp that has heard how soft you are," he remarked, as he read the letter."Hem! I wonder how much money that will be? And when will he be here?"
As if in answer to his question, the sound of wheels was heard on the avenue. Mrs. Quirk flew to the window, while the old man followed more sedately.
"It is himself!" cried Mrs. Quirk. "Let me be the first to bid him welcome."
She almost ran to the front door in her excitement, to find the strong arms of a man around her.
"Glory be to God! And is it Denis?" she sobbed.
"Who else would it be?" answered the newcomer.
Cairns was compounded of energy, his policy to snatch from the hands of progress all that was good, and make the uttermost use of it. "Try all things," he would say. "Throw away the rubbish, and keep that which is enduring." Under his management, "The Observer" advanced from a second-class country paper to one but little inferior to the metropolitan organs.
One man whom he found on the staff he classified as hopeless.
"Worse than this," he added, speaking to Desmond O'Connor, to whom he unburdened himself, "'Gifford will never learn. He believes himself to be a journalistic planet. I don't mind an ordinary honest fool that knows it is a fool, but a fool that regards its own inane folly as the final thing in wisdom is hopeless. Gifford must go."
Here, however, Cairns found himself opposed to his employer. Ebenezer Brown had so high a respect for Gifford that he had been sorely tempted, after the death of Michael O'Connor, to place the sub-editor in the editorial chair. For this promotion Gifford was fully prepared, and only a very small incident preserved Ebenezer Brown from ruining his paper. Ithad so chanced that the editor of a leading metropolitan paper had come to the funeral of his former colleague, Michael O'Connor. Meeting Ebenezer Brown after the funeral, he had asked:
"Who will succeed O'Connor?"
"I am thinking of promoting Gifford," replied the old man.
"Gifford!" cried the editor, under whom many a journalist had graduated. "Are you quite mad?"
"Are you?" retorted Ebenezer Brown, hotly.
'Many people say I am. But I was sane enough to shoot Gifford out the first chance I had of ridding the paper of him.
"You sent him to me with a yard of testimonial," growled Ebenezer Brown.
"Diplomacy, my dear sir. I never make an enemy unless I find myself compelled to do so in self-defence. You needed a new sub-editor, I a new reporter, and I merely shuffled the cards and dealt them again. In your case Gifford seems to have proved a success."
"How do you know that?" asked the old man, rudely.
"You are anxious to promote him."
"On your recommendation. 'A brilliant journalist' you called him," cried Ebenezer Brown.
"And he has been with you six months. Surely you know him by this time?"
"Perhaps you know a better," suggested the old man.
"I know few worse, and I know one man the veryman for 'The Observer'; but I doubt if he will come to you," said the editor.
"Why not?" asked Ebenezer Brown.
"Because you sweat your employes. No man but O'Connor would have worked as editor for the pittance you paid him. Cairns certainly will require a fair salary and a free hand before he gives 'The Observer' a chance."
Ebenezer Brown recognised the truth of what the editor said. His chief regret was that Michael O'Connor had not lived for ever. However, after prolonged negotiations, he accepted Cairns on the latter's own terms.
It was another matter, however, when the editor demanded a more capable lieutenant than Gifford. Here he found Ebenezer Brown inexorable, for the sub-editor was linked to him by the triple bonds of flattery, usefulness, and influence. He made it a rule to regard Ebenezer's every action as perfection; outside the office he assisted the old man in his business affairs; and he brought influence to bear in buttressing his position against the assaults of his chief. The consequence was that he remained as nominal sub-editor, while Cairns deputed Desmond O'Connor to do the work. Gifford, recognising the slight, bore his chief and subordinate no love, but, being unable to injure Cairns, bent himself to take his revenge from the reporter.
It was in his power to make his subordinate's life unpleasant, and this he accomplished to the utmost limit of his capability. But he was not satisfied withthis; his purpose in life was to ruin Desmond. He sowed the seeds of dislike in Ebenezer Brown's mind—an easy thing to accomplish when one was so careless as Desmond O'Connor.
Sketches he left lying about, and verses of poetry which were like pointed barbs in the flesh of Ebenezer Brown. But when the old man turned to Cairns suggesting the dismissal of the reporter, he received small encouragement from the editor.
"O'Connor is careless; I grant that. He is still a boy, and he acts on impulses, often mistaken ones. He is very clever with his pencil, and does not care a hang whom he caricatures. He has even had the cheek to sketch me. I saw it.
"And me, too," growled Ebenezer.
"I saw that, too. I suppose Gifford exhibited it to you?" said Cairns.
"Never mind how I saw it. It is impudence, insubordination, ingratitude," replied the old man.
"Hem!" coughed the editor, dubiously.
"Look what his father owed to me."
"And you to O'Connor," suggested Cairns. "I should put the ingratitude on one side. O'Connor can go if you like, and I shall also retire."
"Oh, nonsense, Cairns! You have a good billet cried Ebenezer.
"No better than I deserve, I assure you. The long and short of it is that I will not allow the petty jealousy of Gifford to deprive me of an invaluable assistant. This is an ultimatum."
Ebenezer Brown retired, grumbling to himself, while Cairns sought Desmond O'Connor.
"You are a hopeless young dog," he said, picking up a sketch. "A racehorse! I presume you bet?"
"Just a trifle now and again," replied the reporter, carelessly. "I won a tenner over that horse."
"Knowing the prejudices of your chief, I am surprised at you. Ebenezer Brown detests racehorses."
"It runs in the blood, sir. My father was worse than I. He would have owned this paper but for a horse and jockey. The horse would have won the Melbourne Cup but that it did not fall in with the jockey's plans. The governor turned to Ebenezer Brown for assistance, and mortgaged 'The Observer,' The old man should be eternally grateful to racehorses."
"And here am I for ever fighting your battles. Why don't you help me? If Ebenezer Brown knows that you gamble, he will shoot you out," remonstrated Cairns.
"He knew the governor's besetting sin, and never so much as remonstrated with him," said Desmond.
"Because your father was invaluable to him, and cheap, neither of which qualifications you possess. There is another matter against you—in fact, several other matters. You dabble in theatricals."
Desmond O'Connor laughed.
"Do you object to theatricals?" he asked.
"Not in the least, excepting from a humanitarian point of view. My only charge against your companyis that you contemplate the mutilation of 'As You Like It.'"
"Better to aim high," suggested Desmond O'Connor, "than to be content with second-rate melodrama. We have a capable instructor, and we are very humble, I assure you. Our attitude is one of deprecation; be merciful our prayer."
"Do you deserve mercy," asked the editor, "rendering none? But let that pass. You at least, I am told, are among the passable players. But Ebenezer Brown abhors plays and players; he detests billiards and cards; strong drink is anathema to him. How can you expect to keep your position—an actor, a billiard player, exponent of bridge, and one who shouts and is shouted?"
"I can only rely upon your support. All these things are harmless," said the reporter.
"Undoubtedly harmless in moderation. But the owner of this paper regards horses, cards and billiards merely as media for gambling; he cannot discriminate between cards as a pleasant relaxation and as a method for playing 'beggar my neighbour.' Plays and strong drink he associates with other vices. If you were a good and prudent young man, you would hide your vices under a pious exterior—for home consumption."
"Hypocrisy!" cried Desmond O'Connor. "I would rather be anything than a hypocrite. What right has old Ebenezer Brown to come dictating to me and preaching piety? Have you heard his history?"
"Snatches of it," said Cairns. "It is the history of many other successful men."
"He is a robber, a mere bird of prey. He has built on the ruins of widows and orphans.' The whole town knows what he is, and he deceives no man, excepting Gifford and himself. Does he expect to deceive the Almighty?"
A sound behind them, half a cry and half a curse, caused the two men to turn towards the door. There stood Ebenezer Brown, his accustomed pallor changed to an unhealthy purple.
"Go!" he cried, barely able to articulate the word in his rage, as he pointed an attenuated finger towards the door. "You are an insubordinate young dog! Go at once!"
"One minute, Mr. Brown. I warned you that no one should dismiss my subordinates but I. If O'Connor goes, I follow him."
"As you please," gasped the old man. "There are others as clever as you, and infinitely less expensive. You ungrateful young scapegrace!" he added, turning on Desmond, "I have been a friend to you and to your family. But for me you would have starved."
With this he stalked out of the office, leaving the other men smiling broadly in each other's faces at this outburst of impotent rage.
"I am a stubborn sort of person," said Cairns, "and I rather like this locality. Shall we stay in Grey Town and fight him?"
Desmond eyed his superior with an unaffected surprise.
"Fight him? But how?" he asked.
"Come round to me to-night—no, to-morrow night,young man. I must see one or two men of business in the town. After my interviews we will discuss the best means of fighting Ebenezer."
"Shall we take the old man at his word, and leave him in the lurch? Do you think he could run 'The Observer' for himself?" asked Desmond.
"No, Desmond; here I stay until he finds a successor. I love the old 'Observer,' and I am responsible for it while I remain on the staff. After I go, I may take my revenge out of the ancient sinner."
That day the work proceeded as usual. During the course of it a man came into the office and asked for Desmond O'Connor. He was a big man, with a good-humoured, ugly face, surmounted by curly black hair. He was tanned by the sun, and his blue-grey Irish eyes peeped out from the reddish-brown surroundings of his face. He had a determined mouth and chin, a jaw that spoke of a struggle with the world, and of success in that battle.
"You are O'Connor?" he asked Desmond when he appeared. "I am Quirk, the long lost and recently returned. Did Miss O'Connor speak of me?"
"She did," replied Desmond, "and of your adventures. Could you favour me with a brief recital of your career?"
"For copy? No, my lad; I am reserving that for my own paper. Any chance for another paper here?" he asked, casually.
"You had better not ask me. I am still an employe of The Observer.'"
"Still? Do you anticipate a move?" asked Quirk, leaning half over the counter.
"I do. I have my marching orders."
"Been playing up, eh? Well, I was a holy terror at your age. I made the old dad's life a torment to him, and sowed a bushel of grey hairs in the mother's head. Is the boss in?"
"Cairns? Yes, I think so."
"Approachable?" asked Quirk.
"Sometimes," replied Desmond.
"What sort of forecast to-day—stormy?"
"Knock at his door, and let him answer for himself."
"Right. I will see you as I go out."
He went to the editor's door, and knocked violently. There was no response, and he knocked again—more violently. Then the door opened suddenly, and Cairns confronted him in a white fury.
"Now, what the dickens, sir," cried the editor, "brings your big battering ram of a fist in contact with my door? Nature provides earthquakes in these parts without your assistance, you noisy devil!"
"Who are you shouting at?" answered Quirk, in an equal fury. "Can't a man tap gently——."
"Tap gently! What sort of a disturbance happens when you knock loudly? What do you want with me?"
"Nothing now. I came to speak to a man, and I find a grizzly bear. Can't a man who has come from the other side of creation call on a local celebrity buthe must have his nose snapped off? Good-day to you, sir!"
Cairns' sense of the humorous saved the situation. Recovering quickly from his irritation, he burst into a roar of laughter. This, for the moment, only added to the other man's indignation.
"Are you laughing at me, sir?" he asked.
"No, I was laughing at myself. I apologise to you; but you came at a moment when I was hopelessly busy," replied Cairns.
Quirk's face relaxed into a grim smile. He regarded the thin, humorous face of the editor attentively. Satisfied with his survey, he said:
"Well, I won't bother you just now. I know what it is to be in a tearing hurry. I ran a newspaper myself in the States; you have to be here, there, and everywhere to do that. Can't trust to anyone but yourself, can you?"
"Not a living soul. But I will give you five minutes if you slip inside."
Quirk entered the editor's office, and the door closed. In half an hour's time it opened again, and the two men came out together.
"Five minutes!" laughed Quirk as he shook Cairns' hand at the door.
"You are such a fascinating man that the minutes have slipped away unnoticed. You will be at my room to-night?"
"Of course I will. Hard at it, young man?" he asked, with a friendly nod to Desmond.
"A twopenny-ha'penny report of atwopenny-ha'penny meeting," replied Desmond, contemptuously.
"Make it spicy; touch it up with a little humour. That's the way to make journalism attractive. Cover a commonplace incident with the mantle of merriment, and make the world laugh. Lord, how we love a good honest laugh!"
With this he went briskly out of the office, and Desmond turned to his task with a renewed interest. There was a point here and a sentence there that might be made humorous. When the speakers read his report of what they had spoken, they discovered that there was, after all, a latent wit in them hitherto quite unsuspected. Those who had been privileged to hear them discovered that remarks had been made at which they had laughed, and that the speakers were not such prosy old fossils as they had suspected.
"That man Quirk knows the secret of the new journalism," said Cairns to Desmond. "It is not truth, or even a make-believe truth; it is to arouse your readers' interest. Tickle them with humour; stuff them with the sensational; let everything be brand-new. We will make the old 'Observer' gallop to beat us."
Desmond raised his eyebrows and waited to hear more, but Cairns turned on his heel, saying:
"In a short time I may satisfy your curiosity, O'Connor; but there's a lot to be done first."
For weeks after Denis Quirk's homecoming Kathleen O'Connor was uncertain as to her feeling towards him.
He was ugly and abrupt, somewhat inquisitive, with none of those gentler qualities that we term polish. He spoke his mind, and spoke it bluntly, regardless of the feelings of others. Self-reliant and perfectly satisfied with himself, he sometimes irritated the girl to the verge of anger. But he was rarely angry, or, if he blazed out into sudden passion, returned speedily to his customary imperturbability, and he was always humorous. His mother he worshipped, and with her he was gentle as a woman; his father he jested with in an affectionate manner. Kathleen realised that he was a good son, while she resented his attitude to herself. His abrupt questions, his curious searching looks led her to believe that he was for ever testing her to discover the strength and weakness of her character. This caused the girl to adopt an attitude of defence, and to meet his inquisitive questions with replies that almost bordered on discourtesy.
Just a fortnight after his arrival, as she sat writing in the breakfast-room at Layton, pausing now and again to watch the gambols of Mrs. Quirk's Persiankitten, Denis Quirk marched into the room. He picked up the kitten, and seated himself with it near the door.
"Writing?" he asked, abruptly.
His manner of questioning her, indicating to her mind a desire to know as to whom and of what she was writing, aroused an immediate resentment in the girl.
"Yes, I am," she answered, shortly.
He smiled at her manifest annoyance, and continued to play with the kitten.
"Fire away then and get it all off your chest," he said.
Kathleen felt that writing was an impossibility under the circumstances, but she was determined that he should not recognise her embarrassment. Her nib flew relentlessly over the sheets, but the letter was disconnected and dry. At last she gathered her writing materials together, and rose to leave the room.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"Never mind that," she replied. "I have never been asked to give an account of my actions, and I do not intend to."
Denis Quirk smiled yet more broadly. It was evident that her irritation amused him. This did not make her the better pleased.
"Sit down and talk to me," he suggested.
"I have other and better things to do," she answered.
He whistled the long-drawn note of surprise. His chair was across the door, but he made no attempt to move it.
"Angry?" he asked.
"Will you please move your chair?" she replied.
"Why should I? I am quite comfortable. Just sit down for five minutes and talk about the old people. I have any number of questions to ask you," he said.
"You always have; but I have no time to answer them. Please move your chair."
"Do you always have your own way?" he asked.
"Always—with gentlemen," she answered.
"Then you shall have it this once with Denis Quirk, who neither professes nor has the slightest wish to be—a gentleman."
He rose and put his chair on one side.
"Thank you," she said, as he held the door open for her. But, while she went up the stairs to Mrs. Quirk's room, the eternal question was repeating itself to her: "What do you think of this man?"
She found old Mrs. Quirk in her room, arranging a series of photos. There was Denis from infancy until the period when he had left his home—ugly, but smiling from infancy to manhood.
"What do you think of Denis? Isn't he grown into a fine man, and as full of fun as if he were a boy? And doesn't he love his old mother?" asked the fond old mother.
"Why shouldn't he?" asked Kathleen. "I love her as if she were my own mother."
"God bless you, child. I believe you do. Did you see what he has brought me? Brooches and shawls! But what good is jewellery to me? You must take them."
"No, no!" cried Kathleen, hastily. "You must keep them for Mr. Quirk's wife."
A smile lit up the old lady's face as she looked at the brooch in her hand and then at Kathleen.
"I just will do that same," she said.
A peremptory knock at the door, and Denis himself entered. He smiled as he noted the array of photographs.
"Which is the uglier," he asked Kathleen, "the picture or the original? Fire away, mother, and tell Miss O'Connor every detail of my life. Cut my first tooth when I was seven days old; spoke—or did I swear—at three months, fought my first fight on my first birthday, and I've been fighting ever since."
"Oh, Denis, Denis, you are as much an omadhaun as ever," sighed Mrs. Quirk. "But he was a fine boy, Kathleen!"
"And into a fine man he has grown, mother!" laughed Denis. "But what could you expect with such a mother? Father alive, Miss O'Connor?"
The abruptness of the question was quite disconcerting to Kathleen.
"No," she replied; "my father is dead."
"Sorry I asked," said Denis.
"God rest his soul! They do say he was a great man; but what could you expect, and him an O'Connor?" said Mrs. Quirk.
"Hem!" began Denis, but he checked himself and asked: "Any relations living, Miss O'Connor?"
"There's her brother Desmond, as handsome as herself," said Mrs. Quirk.
"Anything like me? But that's not to be expected. Where does he work?"
"My brother is a reporter at 'The Observer' office," replied Kathleen. Had it not been for Mrs. Quirk's presence she would have checked his questions once and for all.
"I must look him up to-day. I start operations in Grey Town this afternoon. Did it ever strike you that this place needs stirring up? It's been sleeping ever since it was born. I have come here to make things hum, I tell you that."
Kathleen laughed at the thought of Grey Town humming. All her life she had known it as a gentle, quiet town, to which excitement was unknown and undesired.
"What do you intend to do?" she asked.
"Everything," he answered. "See here, in twelve months' time you will scarcely know Grey Town. There will be squalls, of course, and plenty of fighting. But when I get to work I'll make the old place boom. Ran a paper in the States, and divided the town into friends and enemies. I was just over the last libel action brought against 'The Firebrand' by the last enemy on my list when I sold out. The paper went like wildfire, and the town all but doubled itself in my time. Nothing like a little mustard and pepper if you want to make things go."
"I prophesy that Grey Town will subdue even you. This is a very sleepy atmosphere. No man remains vigorous for over six months; you will soon be slumbering like the rest of us."
"I shall be dead first," he answered. "You don't know me."
"Nor you Grey Town. You are not our first reformer; we have had numbers of them, and we have destroyed them without remorse," said Kathleen.
From the window of the room they could look across fields now green in the freshness of early summer, across the racecourse and park, to where Grey Town climbed irregularly towards St. Mary's Church. There it lay, a town whose streets were only partly made; where sanitation had halted in its most primitive stages; where little attempt had been made to assist the beauties of nature. Yet Grey Town was, in the distance, a pretty spot, embowered in green trees, the blue smoke resting over it, and in the distance the great blue ocean. Large buildings and small hovels, well-cared for gardens and filthy back yards, imposing factories and dilapidated shops—there was surely work here for an energetic reformer. But Kathleen knew the strength of vested rights, the strength of contented indolence; above all, the bitter tongue of scandal that was ever ready to destroy a prophet. Others had fought with Grey Town and failed; why not Denis Quirk?
"No," he answered, reading her thoughts. "Grey Town has been waiting for me, and to-morrow I start on Grey Town. See here! This town should be a city. We need a few more cities, and Grey Town shall be one of the first. Given half a dozen factories and an improved system of railways——."
"Factories!" laughed Kathleen, her eyes strayingtowards the town and its open sea-front, where only a small peninsula of rock protected the bay from the south-west gales. "You are dreaming, Mr. Quirk?"
"Nothing is impossible nowadays. Why no factories in Grey Town? Shall Melbourne possess all the good things? Let us provide for ourselves and for other people, and bring money to the town. Factories Grey Town must have to make agricultural implements, to turn our wool into blankets, our wheat into flour, our milk into butter. Factories and an up-to-date paper."
Mrs. Quirk had listened in a dazed manner to this conversation. It delighted her to sit and listen to her son, just as it did on those rare occasions when her husband talked to her. But she never quite realised what the topic under discussion was, although she nodded or shook her head as she believed was necessary to the occasion.
"Another paper?" cried Kathleen.
"And why not?" asked Mrs. Quirk. "Denis knows what he is saying and doing. Why not another paper if Denis wants it? And what colour would it be, Denis?"
Denis Quirk laughed heartily at his mother's misapprehension, but he threw his arm around her and stooped to kiss her.
"Black and white," he replied; "a newspaper, old lady, up to date and go-ahead, like the old 'Firebrand.'" Then he turned again to Kathleen. "You don't know me," he said. "You imagine I am nothingbetter than a talker; just wait for three months before you judge me."
Therewith he swung out of the room. A few minutes later Kathleen saw him striding rapidly down the avenue on his way towards Grey Town. But she had other things to do besides thinking of Denis Quirk. No sooner was he out of sight than she had settled Mrs. Quirk comfortably in an easy-chair on the balcony, and was reading to the old lady until the latter fell into a peaceful sleep.
It was a quiet and monotonous life for a young girl. Mrs. Quirk was now so dependent upon her that she must have Kathleen always by her side. This was not due to selfishness on the old lady's part. She did not understand that young people need a certain amount of amusement and pleasure to make their lives complete. Kathleen, being wholly unselfish in her nature, considered it her sole duty to look after the old lady. Mr. Quirk, too, had made Kathleen his secretary and accountant. When she was not with Mrs. Quirk, the girl was generally to be found surrounded by accounts and business letters.
It was thus that Denis Quirk found her on his return from the town.
"Do you ever go out?" he asked her, imperatively.
"Every day," she answered.
"To theatres and dances?" he asked.
"I have no time for such frivolities," she answered, laughingly. "I am a working woman now, with every moment occupied."
"Pshaw!" he answered, impatiently. "You needreadjusting; you all need readjusting. Life was never intended to be a mere drudgery."
At tea—the Quirks still clung to the old scheme of meals of the Collingwood days—as they sat around the large table, he suddenly asked his father:
"Why don't you buy a motor, Dad?"
Samuel Quirk glared at his son for some moments in speechless surprise. Then he answered:
"What would I be doing with a motor?"
"Enjoying the beauties of Australia, and giving the mother a little pleasure," replied Denis.
"Pleasure! I would die in a motor," cried Mrs. Quirk.
"Just as well die there as in a phaeton. If you once ride in a motor, you will never ride in anything else, unless it's an aeroplane. If the Dad doesn't buy you a motor, I will."
"A motor! What would the boys say to see me in a motor?" growled Samuel Quirk.
"Confound the boys! If the boys object to a motor, they are fools. Motors mean the circulation of money. What is the difference between a motor and a house, a motor and a horse, a motor and a coat? Don't they all represent money to the working man? Don't bother yourself about the boys, or the jackasses either!"
Already there were signs of political differences between father and son. Samuel Quirk had clung to his Labour political creed all his life; now, in his time of prosperity, he refused to resign his early principles. Denis, a Democrat at heart, was something of afreelance, inclined to tilt indiscriminately at both parties. This, however, was the first occasion since his homecoming on which he had openly opposed his father, and Samuel Quirk resented it.
"I have two legs to travel on, and they are good enough for me," he growled.
"Just hear him, and he calls himself a Progressive. It's a Conservative he is. Where's the use of science, if you refuse to make use of its gifts?" cried Denis.
Kathleen recognised that Denis was irritating his father and grieving his mother, not of intention, but simply because he did not realise that Samuel Quirk could not tolerate opposition.
"Well, I have a proposal to make. You shall hire a motor," she suggested. "Mr. Quirk and Granny shall ride in it, and see how they like it. Then, perhaps, Mr. Quirk may be induced to buy one."
"Never!" growled Samuel Quirk. "Them noisy, dusty, smelling inventions of the——!"
"Hush!" cried Mrs. Quirk. "The devil never invented anything good."
"And where's the good of them?" asked her husband.
"They make a long and hard journey short and pleasant. But Miss O'Connor is right. You shall try what a motor is like, and if you don't take to it I will buy one for the mother myself," said Denis.
It was an exciting moment in the house when he drove up the following day in a large car. Mrs. Quirk, if very nervous, was anxious to experience the new sensation of travelling in a motor; Kathleen waskeenly desirous that Denis' plan might succeed; Samuel Quirk feigned contempt and indifference, but he was in his heart as excited as his wife.
"Now, come along, mother, and you, too, Miss O'Connor. Will you try a short spin, Dad?" said Denis.
Samuel Quirk strolled over to and eyed the motor even more contemptuously than before.
"What's that?" he asked the chauffeur.
"That's the throttle," replied the latter.
"Humph! I suppose you can drive the noisy thing?"
The chauffeur nodded; he was too insulted to reply in words.
"Can you stop it?" asked the old man.
"In a few yards," said Denis. "Step inside, Dad, and see for yourself."
Grumbling and growling, Samuel Quirk followed his wife and Kathleen into the tonneau. From the front seat Denis directed the driver.
"Easy at first, until they find their legs; then intoxicate them with the sensation of flying," he half whispered.
To Kathleen it was pure joy from the first; but Mrs. Quirk, and, to tell the truth, Samuel Quirk, were for half an hour very nervous.
"Can you stop her?" the latter asked as they flew down a steep hill.
In answer to the question, the chauffeur brought the car to a standstill. Thus assured, Samuel Quirkbecame confident, and before they returned home he was urging the chauffeur to increased speed.
"Do you call this fast?" he asked; and when the car began to race along the road a pleased smile lighted up his face. He even waved his hand pleasantly to those he passed on the road, and when the car stopped in front of the house the old man asked the chauffeur:
"How much do you want for it?"
"You don't think of buying this old car?" cried Denis. "You want a new one, and right up to date."
"Would it go as fast as this one?" asked Samuel Quirk.
"You shall have one out in a few days and try it."
Only a fortnight later a large twenty-horse-power car and a chauffeur were added to the equipment of "Layton." Samuel Quirk was the most enthusiastic admirer of, and the most frequent passenger in, the car. He was curious as to the machinery and the method of driving. Probably this was the most satisfactory thing that his wealth had brought him.
Mrs. Quirk, too, after her first nervousness, found great pleasure in the motor; but to Kathleen it was the first of a series of new enjoyments, for Denis Quirk hurried his mother on from one dissipation to another—concerts, theatres, even dances. Hesitatingly, Mrs. Quirk accepted his advice to try them; but, having once found pleasure in the evident enjoyment they gave Kathleen, she willingly went wherever Denis advised her. In this way the household at "Layton" received the necessary readjustment, with excellent results to all the inmates.
Dr. Marsh was in his surgery, skimming the contents of a medical journal in search of the newer methods of treatment. Now and again he glanced from the printed pages out of his window at the asphalt path leading from the gate to his front door, not so much because he expected a patient as from mere habit. It was an off day in Grey Town, and his surprise was keen when he chanced to see, not one, but three men approaching the house.
It had become a custom with him to scan a patient and diagnose a complaint at long range, and to subsequently confirm or disprove his first opinion more intimately at closer quarters. Being a shrewd and observant man, he not infrequently hit a bull's-eye at the first shot. Scrutinising the three who were coming up the path, he muttered:
"Cairns, Desmond O'Connor, and the ugliest beggar I ever saw! But which is the patient? Cairns has dyspepsia, I swear; Desmond could not be sick if he tried; the ugly beggar suffers from nothing worse than his face, and that is a chronic condition."
Commenting half-audibly in this manner, he hastened to the door and cried:
"Are you all patients?"
Cairns shook his head sorrowfully. "No such luck, doctor! Beyond a little discomfort after meals, we are hopelessly sound."
"Are you a deputation, then, come to ask me to represent you in the Federal Parliament?" asked the doctor.
"It may come to that," said Cairns. "If Burrows does not speedily do something for Grey Town, we shall need a new member. May I introduce Mr. Quirk, a new resident and a live citizen?"
Denis Quirk and the doctor shook hands, each regarding the other curiously the while.
"An insurance agent," said the doctor in the half-audible tone he sometimes adopted.
To this the others replied with a laugh.
"No fear, doctor!" cried Cairns. "Am I the man to take a mean advantage of you? We have come here to consult you—not professionally, but as one who knows this district, alive and dead."
"None better," said Dr. Marsh.
They followed him into a cosy and orderly surgery, and sat down at his bidding. For his part, the doctor leaned up against the mantelpiece, one elbow resting on the marble and one arm free.
"Now, then, what is it?" he asked.
"We are contemplating a venture," said Denis Quirk—"a newspaper in opposition to 'The Observer.'"
Dr. Marsh shook his head emphatically, frowning the while at Denis Quirk.
"Mental, decidedly mental," he growled. "You have delusions."
Denis Quirk laughed uproariously at this remark. The doctor was a man after his own heart.
"You don't give it a chance?" he asked.
"Not a thousand to one hope! What do we want with two papers?"
"Precisely!" cried Denis Quirk. "But supposing we were to shoulder 'The Observer' out of Grey Town?"
"Is Cairns a mutineer?" asked the doctor.
"I am a cast-off. Old Ebenezer Brown has given me marching orders, and I am looking for a new master," replied Cairns.
Dr. Marsh's face brightened, for he had a consuming hatred for the owner of 'The Observer.' Even the faintest hope of wounding Ebenezer Brown was a reason for joy to him.
"It might be done?" he said. "Are you a newspaper man?" he asked Denis Quirk.
"In the past, and, I hope, in the future. I am tempted to risk a battle with 'The Observer.' With Cairns and O'Connor, myself, and one or two others—yourself, for instance, doctor—we might make the old rag gallop, possibly even beat it, eh?"
"Stop a minute. Do any of you drink?" asked the doctor.
The other men shook their heads.
"Too early," said Cairns. "If we started now, where would we end?"
"Very well, then. Let me have some details before I decide. Who is to finance the paper?"
"I shall do that, with your help, if you like, leaving the public to pay us principal and interest when we have destroyed Ebenezer Brown and his organ," said Denis Quirk.
"Cairns will be editor, I suppose?" asked the doctor.
"Cairns editor, O'Connor a reporter, myself manager, and Tim O'Neill printer's devil."
"Tim O'Neill!" laughed the doctor. "Where did you discover that rapscallion? Molly Healy introduced you to him, I swear."
"I forgot Molly Healy in mentioning the staff. She is to write a series of articles dealing with the seamy side of Grey Town life and her methods of reforming the riff-raff. Yes; it was she who brought Tim to me. 'Here you are!' she cried. 'Tis the wickedest boy in Grey Town. Make him something useful, and you will be doing a public service to me and to the town and district.' I engaged him as printer's devil on that recommendation."
After half an hour of facts and figures, the doctor dismissed his visitors. He was satisfied that this was not an impossible scheme, and he even went so far as to accept a portion of the financial burden. This argued well for the newspaper, for the doctor was a shrewd man.
Ebenezer Brown firmly believed in vested interests when those interests were his own. Until he was actually faced by "The Mercury," he had regardedopposition to "The Observer" as impossible. When confronted by the strong staff of Denis Quirk's paper, he at first began to whine over the treachery of opposition; then he straightened his back to fight.
Gifford, the sub-editor, had hailed the resignation of Cairns as promotion to himself; and so it might have proved, but Ebenezer Brown was far too shrewd to oppose Gifford to Cairns.
"We must find a new editor," he remarked to the former when the rumour of opposition reached him.
Gifford, with a half promise of the editorial chair in his mind, smiled blandly.
"You will not forget——," he began.
"I forget everything," snapped Ebenezer Brown, "when I have to fight. I am going to Melbourne to find a strong editor. After this opposition is crushed I intend to sack him and place you in charge," he added more gently, for he liked Gifford, if he really cared for any man.
But the fight was not to end so simply and speedily as the old man imagined. "The Mercury" dawned on Grey Town, strong, cynical, and up to date. There were initial troubles with the Cable News Agency, but Cairns managed to adjust these, against the determined opposition of Ebenezer Brown. Then came splendid days for the advertising public, when both newspapers brought down their scale of charges to the very lowest price. Keen, too, was the demand for copy when Desmond O'Connor and his junior reporter found themselves opposed to men almost as keen as they. Grey Town fairly throbbed withexcitement, and daily searched the rival papers to discover which one had outwitted the other. In the office of "The Mercury" Denis Quirk and Cairns sat together planning new features to place their paper in advance of its rival. Their first success was the nobbling of "The Observer's" senior reporter. For this Tim O'Neil was responsible.
Tim was errand boy, printer's devil, and messenger for "The Mercury," and he firmly believed that the newspaper's success was due to his exertions. All the ingenuity of which he was capable, the boy employed on behalf of his employers. When the State member came to Grey Town to make his election speech, Tim O'Neill recognised an opportunity. It was a notorious fact that "The Observer's" new reporter was addicted to drink, and, after reporting the speech in full, he slipped into the "Royal Hart" Hotel, as was his custom, for a glass of whisky, his shorthand report in his pocket. After him, cautiously, went Tim O'Neill, and abstracted his notes from his pocket, substituting for them a spurious copy. Where Tim had secured this false shorthand report history does not relate, but they were cleverly done, so like and yet so unlike the original as to be ridiculous. It was this report that appeared in "The Observer" next morning. In his fury the editor discharged the chief reporter, and when he went out to re-engage him found that Cairns had been before him.
"Tim O'Neill, you deserve a sound thrashing," said Denis Quirk when he heard of the boy's escapade. "But your wages are raised, not as an incentive tofurther crimes, but because you have a future before you. Do you ever study?"
"Just a little. Miss Molly is teaching me," said Tim.
"I must arrange with Burnside to give you a few hours every week. You will be an editor some day, Tim, if you avoid the rocks," said Denis Quirk.
That very day Tim came in to Desmond O'Connor, his face the picture of anxiety. Noting this, Desmond eyed the youth in surprise: then he burst out in a shout of laughter.
"What are you doing that for?" asked Tim, furiously.
"I never saw you so melancholy before, Tim. What particular sin have you committed? Or have you lost a far-distant cousin? Confess your guilt, Tim."
"I suppose you think you're funny?" cried Tim. "I've half a mind to go and give myself to 'The Observer,' and ruin this blessed old paper."
Desmond O'Connor's shout of laughter brought Cairns from his room, anxious to share the joke.
"Let us have it at once," he cried. "In this strenuous life a joke is too precious an event to be wasted. Who made it, you or Tim?"
"Tim is acquiring a high sense of humour," said Desmond. "Tell Mr. Cairns your awful threat, Tim."
"Yah!" cried Tim, vindictively, "I'll tell Mr. Cairns what I came to tell you, and leave you to wish you knew it."
Therewith he drew the editor into his room, and closed the doors carefully.
"They're going to strike, sir, on both papers, for higher wages," he said in a low voice.
"Who do you mean, Imp?" asked Cairns, addressing the boy by the name he had especially devised for him.
"The compositors. To-night they're going out to stop both papers."
"Tim O'Neill, you are a perfect mine of information. Providence was determined to bless 'The Mercury' when it sent us Tim O'Neill. Just run away now and ask Mr. Quirk if I can see him."
Denis Quirk was at once a diplomatic and a determined man. On hearing the newest development, he hurried away to interview the prospective strikers.
"Lay your grievances before me," he said. "If I can put them right with justice to the proprietors of this paper, it shall be done."
It was the usual story—higher wages and shorter hours, a larger staff, better paid, with less work to do individually. Denis Quirk offered a compromise, but this was refused. After half an hour's discussion, he suddenly broke out into a white heat of anger.
"Do you fancy I can't do without you?" he cried.
The men replied with a burst of ironical laughter.
"I began life as a compositor, and I have not forgotten my trade," he said. "You can go, every one of you that wants more. But 'The Mercury' will appear to-morrow, take my tip for that."
Sullenly the men withdrew, to hang about outside the office, watching to see who would take their places.But no one came from outside, while in the printing room all was bustle.
"Now, throw off your coats," cried Denis Quirk, "every one of you. You too, Cairns, and do what I tell you. You, Tim O'Neill, take this telegram to the post office. We will have a new staff to-morrow, and men I can rely upon."
In this way "The Mercury" was printed under the greatest difficulties, but the rival newspaper failed to appear. Ebenezer Brown was stubborn, and when his editor brought him the news of the threatened strike he refused to concede anything.
"Not one penny more, and not one second less, will they get from me. Let them strike," he growled.
"But you must come to terms," said the editor. "You can't afford to miss one issue of 'The Observer.'"
"I am paying fair wages, and they may fish for a rise," replied Ebenezer Brown.
The following day, like its rival, "The Observer" was manned again and working smoothly, but its prestige was hopelessly impaired. Thenceforward "The Mercury" advanced daily at the expense of the older paper, until, six weeks after the beginning of the campaign, Ebenezer Brown went to Denis Quirk to effect a compromise.
Denis was sitting in his shirt-sleeves, his collar off and neckband loosened, when Ebenezer Brown entered.
"Sit down, Mr. Brown. I will attend to you in five minutes. We are so confoundedly busy that I must put this through at once."
Ebenezer Brown mumbled something inarticulate and sat down, watching the pile of papers on the desk in front of the man he hated. After a few minutes Denis Quirk swung round on the office stool to face him.
"Well, sir, what is it?" he asked. "An advertisement or an obituary notice of 'The Observer?'"
Ebenezer Brown was rendered speechless with indignation for the moment.
"I didn't come here to be insulted," he growled.
"Then why did you come? Haven't you been throwing insults at me from the columns of your rag these six weeks past? A man doesn't walk into the lion's den to have his hand licked by the lion."
"And how have you treated me?" cried Ebenezer Brown. "First you stole my reporter's copy, then you stole my reporter."
"Stole, sir!" Denis Quirk rang his bell, and Desmond O'Connor entered. "Kindly take down this gentleman's words, Desmond. Now, Mr. Brown, please repeat your statement."
"You are an unscrupulous person!" growled the old man.
"You have that down, Desmond? Continue, Mr. Brown," said Denis Quirk.
"Robber! Forger!" cried the old man, roused to fury. "You have neither manners nor honesty."
Therewith he rose and rushed into the street, and the burst of laughter that he heard as he went did not tend to make him better pleased or satisfied.
"Do you intend to prosecute?" asked Desmond O'Connor.
"Prosecute! No, my lad, I only defend actions for libel. If he had used every term of reproach in every dictionary, I would not be tempted to a prosecution. I am highly flattered. It proves that I have succeeded in making the old man uncomfortable, and satisfies me. Just write a humorous sketch on the little skirmish, but don't give any names. The town will understand who is the principal character if you manage your article dexterously and with humour. Bring it to me to touch up when the sketch is completed."
For two weeks longer "The Observer" struggled on; then Ebenezer Brown sent an intermediary, in the person of a lawyer, to make terms.
"There is only one possible arrangement—"The Observer" goes out," said Quirk. "How much does Ebenezer Brown ask?"
"His proposal is to buy 'The Mercury,'" replied the messenger.
"Hopeless! I have started 'The Mercury' as a financial investment and something more. It is to be a literary battery to galvanise Grey Town into energy. I really don't care a hang for 'The Observer.' That organ is dying rapidly; in a few weeks it will be dead. But I am prepared to pay for a more speedy ending to a useless life," replied Denis Quirk.
"How would a limited proprietary suit you?" asked the lawyer.
"With Ebenezer as a shareholder? Impossible! 'The Mercury' intends to shoot at old Eb. and his sort.These are the men who are holding back the wheels of progress. He is a landlord who keeps his premises in a shocking state, charges big rents, refuses to make repairs, refuses to build, opposes reasonable rates, and holds one half of the council under his domination. Ebenezer Brown represents stagnation and corruption, the last things I intend to countenance."
"Shall I tell him your objection?" laughed the lawyer.
"If it will encourage him to prosecute for libel, I say yes; but you may use your own discretion. Tell him I will buy 'The Observer' right out for a sum to be settled by arbitration—buy it out or destroy it."
Thus did it come to pass that "The Observer" disappeared into oblivion, and in its place came that fiery paper, "The Mercury," respecter of neither person nor position.
It was "The Mercury" that first breathed on the smouldering ashes of municipal discontent, and roused the ratepayers of Grey Town to organise for protection and advancement. Thus was accomplished the first act in a drama, and thus was fought the initial battle of a long and fierce campaign.
Cairns and Denis Quirk were working post haste in "The Mercury" office. "We must make 'The Mercury' a go-ahead, up-to-date paper," said Cairns.
"That's it, my man," replied Denis Quirk.
"We want to consider our readers' amusements," said Cairns.
"Tickle them, and make them laugh, and they will put their arms round the old 'Mercury's' neck and love her," cried Denis.
"Racing is the first and most important amusement in Australia. You need a sporting editor."
"Good old Cairns! With you and Tim O'Neill I have the finest stuff in Victoria. A sporting editor you shall have, sonny. What about Desmond O'Connor?"
Cairns shook his head doubtfully.
"Couldn't stand it," he answered. "He's too fond of Dame Chance already, and inclined to be one of the good-natured 'have-a-drink-with-me' crowd. Desmond needs watching."
"I'll tell you what he wants—to get right away from here, and fight the world alone," said Denis.
"You and I," cried Cairns, "are the men to founda new party with a new Australian policy. Mere parochialism must go, sir, if Australia is to have a destiny. I have my eye upon Desmond as a disciple."
"Don't hurry, Cairns. Reform Grey Town first, then turn your mind to Australia. There is plenty to be done here. Have you prepared that article on the municipal omissions?"
Cairns handed a proof to Denis Quirk, and the latter ran his eye over it.
"Good!" he cried, approvingly. "Slash it into them! 'Too much of a hole and corner system.' 'Too many surprises sprung upon a too-confiding public.' That's the way to make things hum. I must give Wilde a retainer to defend us in our libel actions. I see them coming, Cairns. To-morrow rake it into Ebenezer Brown for the state of his premises in Chester Street; on Saturday draw attention to the insanitary condition of the best residential part of the town. Keep things moving, and we will make Grey Town a live community. Then we will turn our attention to Australia."
Now, the first sporting editor of "The Mercury" was a handsome man, clean-shaven and well-dressed, who presented himself to Denis Quirk in answer to an advertisement in a Melbourne paper.
"Mr. James Gerard," read Cairns from the card that Tim O'Neill handed to him that morning. "Have you any idea who Mr. Gerard is?"
"He says he's 'Trafalgar,' sir; not the battle, sir, but the horse. I fancy he's dotty, Mr. Cairns; he looks more like a donkey than a horse."
"Show him in to Mr. Quirk; I have no time for lunatics," said Cairns.
Mr. James Gerard was accordingly shown into the managers' room. Denis Quirk was at the moment preparing a speech, for he had already decided to contest a vacancy on the council. He received his visitor abruptly.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"I am 'Trafalgar;' perhaps you have heard of me," said the newcomer.
"Never!" replied Denis.
"Hem! I thought you might have seen my nom de plume in the 'Sporting Chronicle.'"
"Never heard of it. What do you want?"
"You advertised for a sporting editor. I have come after the place."
"Do you know anything about horses?" asked Denis.
"No one better; I have studied them all my life," replied Gerard.
"That doesn't say you can write about them. How much do you ask?"
"Salary is no object to me. Racing is my hobby. I have an income of my own, and I write as an employment and a pleasure."
"If you come to me you will have to accept a salary, much as it may pain you. You will be a servant, and do exactly as I ask. Are you prepared for that?" said the manager.
"Naturally! Why would I be here if I were not prepared for that?"
"Very well, then. You will begin at £4 a week, to be increased if you suit us; if you don't suit, out you go. When are you prepared to begin?"
"To-day, if you like."
"To-morrow you can go to Melton and report the meeting. See that you are spicy; we expect spice on this paper."
"Trafalgar's" first report did not satisfy the manager.
"See here, Mr. Gerard," he said, entering the outer office, where "Trafalgar" was already fraternising with Desmond O'Connor, "'The Mercury' is out to put down fraud and hypocrisy wherever it is to be found. I sent you to Melton to draw public attention to irregularities. Why did Caprice run last in the Melton Cup?"
"Not quite fit," replied the sporting editor glibly. "I was talking to Carter——."
"Talking to her trainer and asking his opinion! That's not what we want here. Last week Caprice started at 6 to 4 on and won the Welter Handicap at Balnogan; yesterday she was quoted at 5 to 1, and ran last in the Melton Cup. Sit down and mention those two facts together, leaving the readers to draw their own deductions, as I do."
"Are you looking for libel actions?" asked "Trafalgar," innocently.
"Not looking for them, but quite prepared for them in a just cause. Did you read my speech last night?"
"I have not found time," stammered the sportingeditor, while Desmond O'Connor sat listening with a broad smile on his face.
"Oblige me by reading it. It represents my policy, and the policy of this paper. We call a spade a spade on 'The Mercury.' Just read that speech, and then sit down and write about Caprice. You can mention the running of Bailiff in the Hurdles at the same time. If the stewards won't do their duty, 'The Mercury' will point it out to them."
In this manner was Gerard introduced to the policy of Denis Quirk and his paper. He was, however, a smart man, quite capable of grasping a situation when it was demonstrated to him. In a few weeks' time the clever division began to read the accounts of their acts of brigandage with fear and trembling; obsequious stewards became more alert, and less timid in dealing with glaring acts of fraud, while threats were openly indulged in, and actions for libel suggested. But Denis Quirk and his paper went on their prescribed course, regardless of threats, and awaiting libel actions that failed to come.
There was no lack of excitement in Grey Town in those days. Men did not go about wearily, and sigh because there was nothing in the papers. There were times of stress and battle in the town when Denis Quirk and "The Mercury" fought with sloth, indifference, and vested interests; times when he was rarely at home with the old people, because he had many and important things to do, to say, and to write about in the town.
But Gerard dropped quietly into a position offamily friend and confidential adviser at "Layton." He was introduced by Denis Quirk, and, being a man of comparative leisure, it became his habit to spend a part of his leisure at the house, and to accompany Mrs. Quirk and Kathleen O'Connor when they went out to find amusement. To this Denis Quirk readily assented, for he was more at ease among the men and women who worked than among those who played. Desmond O'Connor, too, was shouldering the burden of stern responsibility, and someone had to look after Mrs. Quirk and Kathleen. Who could better do this than Gerard, a harmless and pleasant man in Denis Quirk's eyes?
This was the first male friendship of Kathleen O'Connor. Here was a man who told her the history of his lifetime, not discursively, but in fragments dropped here and there. There is pleasure, entertainment, and pathos in every man's life, no matter who he may be. Gerard had lived more adventurously than many others. He was a man who could make love charmingly, one who had been liberally educated. There were many pleasing reminiscences, many sad incidents in his past, and he had a happy method of speaking of such events.
This is the manner in which love sometimes comes to man and woman, not, as it is often pictured, as a sudden passion, but slowly and in stages. Gerard loved easily and lightly; he had already had his grand passions, and the current of his life ran none the less pleasantly because of them. To make love to a pretty girl was nothing to him, merely another passingincident. But a man was an event to Kathleen O'Connor, an admirer something hitherto unknown. She had laughed and flirted with boyish admirers, as girls do; but such events are mere ripples on the surface of passion. The love and admiration of a man are to such things a vast upheaval of the depths of the ocean.
There was at this time one person who cordially disliked Gerard, probably the only one in Grey Town. This was Molly Healy, and she had great difficulty to find a reason for her antipathy to the sporting editor of "The Mercury." After her first meeting with Gerard, she expressed her sentiments to Kathleen O'Connor unreservedly, as was her way.
"I couldn't bear to have that man near me," she said.
Kathleen was, in those days, perfectly unbiassed in her opinion of Gerard. He was to her merely a new acquaintance, but she found him pleasant and well-informed. Laughingly, she asked:
"Why not?"
"He is too spick and span for me," said Molly, "and altogether too smiling. He has got no soul."
These sentiments she cherished doggedly, and expressed on every occasion, to his face and behind his back. As the romance began to take possession of Kathleen, she found it hard not to resent Molly's criticism. Mrs. Quirk went so far as to scold Molly relentlessly for her expressions of dislike, but the girl only laughed at her:
"Sure, you are too young and innocent. You don't know the wickedness there is in the world. But Ihave been taking lessons from every guttersnipe and old good-for-nought in the town. There's wickedness in Gerard's eye, and in his nose too."
Desmond O'Connor was a particular friend of his brother scribe, but the acquaintance was not for the boy's good. Gerard taught him to drink more than he should, and to gamble for money that he could not afford to lose. While these facts were unknown in the semi-retirement of "Layton," they speedily came to Molly Healy's ears. She acted with a customary impulse that was imprudent with such a nature as Desmond O'Connor's. One morning on his way to "The Mercury" office he was stopped by Molly.
"Desmond," she said, "what is this I am hearing of you?"
Desmond met her laughingly, for he seldom took Molly Healy seriously.
"Something wonderful?" he said.
"Something you should be ashamed of! Look there at old Mason."
She pointed to where an old man was crossing the road, a dilapidated wreck of humanity, for Mason was the champion drunkard of Grey Town.
"It is such an old man as that you will become," said Molly.