MICKY strolled into the Courier's local room one evening, and, after hanging up his overcoat and hat, removed also his under coat and unbuttoned his vest. He then leisurely detached his cuffs and rolled up his shirt sleeves, to get arm-room, as he used to term it. Then, having indulged a taste for preliminaries which he was fond of observing, whenever he had the time, he sailed in. A half hour later he had finished his task and turned in the copy. There was a temporary lull, and O'Byrn leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his red head, and dreamily watched the rings of smoke wreathing upward from the tip of his cigar.
"Wherever did you get a gash like that?" inquired a voice behind him, and Micky felt a finger touch his wrist. Mead, who also chanced to be disengaged at the moment, took an adjacent chair and stretched himself out comfortably for a chat.
Micky lazily extended his right arm and bestowed a curious glance upon a long, livid scar, just above the wrist. "Oh, that?" he answered. "That was an accident. Got it when I was too young to remember. Beastly night, eh?"
"Yes, trying to blow up a nasty rain, I guess. Where've you been tonight?"
"Oh, out in society," grinned Micky. "Harkins sent me to do that Van Courts' recep' 'nd ball. Careless servants, though. I was glad to get away alive."
"Why?"
"Well, I was discreetly in the background, of course, and was edging across to get a better view when I fell over a pile of things on the floor that they'd failed to brush up. Hostess gave 'em the glacial eye."
"I should think she would," warmly commented Mead. "What was the stuff?"
"Why, a bunch of ultras had just been standing there," demurely explained O'Byrn, "and I fell over the dropped r's, that's all."
Mead viewed him darkly. "You ought to be killed," he remarked. "Such cheap and unseemly levity is unworthy of one who is pursuing this honorable, elevating, expanding career of journalism." This with an oratorical flourish.
A shadow of seriousness crept into O'Byrn's twinkling eyes. "Of course you're in fun, in a way," he told Mead, "but, just the same, you're inclined to take your 'mission' seriously. My boy, you're due to shed a raft of illusions. You'll find this 'career,' as you call it, is a good deal like a hobby horse. Pleasant motion, but doesn't land you anywhere. There's nothin' to it. I heard you talking the other day about 'the great equipment it gives a fellow for a start in life.' That's all right if taken in time, like the measles, but let me tell you something. You stick at this, and stick and stick, and by the time you're ready for that start, you'll be backin' up.
"You were a cub a while ago, Mead, and you madegood. Naturally you feel good about that, for a lot of 'em don't. Well, you needn't feel good. You've got the germ, and it's fatal. You're to be pitied, for you're thoroughly _en rapport_ with the job."
O'Byrn had warmed to his subject; his cigar stub described wild flourishes. "I knew a young fellow once, in the middle west, who went into the reporting line. Brighter'n a dollar and full of ambition and the opportunity hop. Tried hard, but hadn't the nose, couldn't make good nohow. Old man called him up on the carpet one day. Old man went it for a while and then the gosling got a chance for a squawk.
"'Why,' says he in an injured way, 'I cover my assignments.'
"'Oh, yes,' snaps the old man,—and he was one of the best in the business,—'you're all right on the stereotype, tellin' the people what they already know about. Any lunkhead can report a baby show. The mothers are there to tell him about it. But that's only half the game. The other and the hardest half is in diggin' out and tellin' 'em what they don't know about. That's what you're for and it's where you fall down.'
"Well, the old man fired him. He was lucky. He's gettin' the salary of three of us now and he's gettin' it out of straight life. Manages a district. The old man who fired him died a while ago. Next time my friend passed through that town he stopped off, just to shed some tears of gratitude on the old man's grave.
"Oh, you grin now, Mead, and you're thinkin' to yourself 'Old Carrots, the senile cynic.' But just you stick at it, and fail to sidestep the Juggernaut, and in years to come you'll remember the words your Uncle Mike is nowaddressin' to you and you'll feel the same sentiment the old farmer from up north wrote on the back of a check.
"Never heard of it? Well, it's true. Old fellow was from Clayville Corners. Got a check one day for something. Never saw anything like that before; always took his money straight. Someone told him to take it into town and get it cashed at the bank. So he blows in and shoves the slip in front of the cashier. Cashier says, 'You'll have to indorse this.' Old man was rather rattled but stayed game. Took it over to the desk and scribbled on the back this sentiment:
"'i hartily Indors this Chek.'
"That'll be you, Mead, in the coming days. You'll think what Micky told you and you'll heartily indorse. But it won't be checks. The only checks you get in this cussed business are over-draws."
"Nice, roseate view you take of your calling," sarcastically remarked Mead. "Why in thunder don't you get out of it?"
Micky's grin was illuminating and forgiving. "Because I can't do anything else," he admitted frankly. "But you can. Why don't you? Try politics. It's the graft these days. Then bimeby you can retire, like Shaughnessy, and will never have to work anybody any more. But just you stick at this newspaper stunt, and after a while you find, to your surprise, that 'the zest and thrill of news gettin' which is the fillip of the reporter's jaded life' is gettin' a dull edge. Of course, you're older than you used to be, and that explains most things, includin' the multiplyin' of troubles that come to you while you wait. The chiefest one is in your speed. It's O. K. when you're young and your blood is boundin'. You feel like thatbrute owned by the enthusiastic French Canadian. He was workin' a horse trade, and says: 'Dat hoss, she trot half-past two. He no trot half-past two, I give you to it!'
"Now, the trouble with the vet reporter is that by the time he gets to an age that is considered the prime of life in any other line, why, he can't half trot past anybody, and he gets scratched. And I think that will hold you for a while, Mead. Think it over."
O'Byrn yawned, glanced at the clock, and rose. "Well," said he, airily, "I'm off, don't you know, to see if I can find something to make me forget that society shindy. Oh, ya-a-s! Bubbles! you rude fellah; there now, Bubbles! Go 'way, Mead. You're not so bad, you know, but you don't belong. Tra, la! old chap, be good. What a pity you have to work for a living!" With which parting arrant nonsense O'Byrn considerately took himself off.
Arrived at the street, Micky's jovial grin faded and he walked along with a serious air that had been far more frequent with him of late. There was a sober-sided Micky that few of his mates knew. Often now, when the little Irishman was alone, the reckless light would fade in the blue eyes, leaving them unwontedly serious; the jovial grin would quit the freckled face, to be replaced by that pensive shadow that tells of wistful, wondering speculation regarding the veiled mystery of futurity. Such the spell of introspection that is cast when love comes to one, leading to grave heart-searchings, to the tentative facing of one's soul. There is as much of shadow as of sunlight in the path of true love, but there is substance in the shadow.
Micky was walking swiftly along, oblivious to hisanimated surroundings, when a touch upon an elbow arrested his attention. He glanced up, somewhat bewildered, and stopped. One of Maisie's brothers, Tom, was facing him.
"Hello, O'Byrn," abruptly remarked Muldoon. "Saw you passing me, lookin' dreamy-eyed, so I stopped you. Thought you might want to know. Maisie's sick."
"Sick!" echoed Micky, a scared look in his face. "Why, what—"
"Oh, don't worry like that." reassuringly. "We called in the doctor; he says there's no danger. She'll be all right."
"Yes," Micky returned anxiously, "but what's the matter, man? Why, she was all right Friday evening. I was there."
"Yes," returned her brother, "it came on real sudden. It's that fever that's going around; she came down last night. But she's got it mild, so don't you worry. It's too late now, she's asleep, but run in tomorrow for a minute sometime, can't you? It'll do her good. And don't worry, old man." With a hearty slap on Micky's shoulder Tom passed on.
Micky continued on his way, his heart heavy with the news. Of course, she was not in danger, but illness in itself is depressing to the young. They hate the sound of the word; the sight of suffering inspires in them an odd, rebellious impatience. The sun is needed to brighten the gray old world; why is it so often behind a cloud? "Poor little girl!" murmured Micky, the tears starting to his eyes. Why, only last Friday night she had been the picture of health and happiness, and they had sat side by side on the little sofa and talked of their modest plans.Yes, and he had run into the store the next day and chatted with her for a moment. And now she lay sick and helpless at home. A great wave of tenderness suffused O'Byrn's warm Irish heart. Would he call to see her for a moment on the morrow? Would he?
Micky pressed on at a furious pace, impatiently winking smarting eyes, puffing like a locomotive at a cigar whose end flared like a headlight. For the moment he was oblivious to his surroundings, though hurrying through a crowded, brilliantly lighted street. Mechanically he turned a corner into a darker one. A moment more and he was recalled to earth by a dry, remembered voice, a voice that broke disagreeably in upon his reverie.
"Can you give me a light?" it inquired, as Micky halted. "You seem to have enough."
Micky proffered his raging cigar and watched the man curiously as he lighted it. Oddly enough, considering O'Byrn's wide acquaintance since his brief stay in town, the two had never met. Under the dim radiance of an adjacent old street lamp, Shaughnessy's face gleamed ghastly white, the black moustache had an odd, limp droop. His weed lighted, he handed Micky's cigar back with a slight nod of acknowledgment and was about to turn away.
O'Byrn's deviltry, irrepressible and eternal, asserted itself. "You're lookin' bad, Mr. Shaughnessy," he remarked with impudent solicitude. "'Tain'tgood for you, this night air. Don't you go to them; you don't have to. Make 'em come to you."
For once Shaughnessy's impassive mask was disturbed, which Micky noted with impish satisfaction. To be sure, it was not much. Where many a face would have beencuriously distorted, the basilisk eyes of Shaughnessy just widened and glared a moment, that was all. Then they narrowed and became expressionless, while Shaughnessy deliberately removed his cigar from his mouth and thoughtfully emitted a cloud of smoke.
"Who are you?" he inquired casually.
Micky had recourse to his card case. "Allow me," he remarked politely.
Shaughnessy glanced at it and thrust it in his vest pocket. "I've heard of you," he acknowledged. "Fine night, eh? Good evening." He moved leisurelyaway.O'Byrn hailed him and he turned.
"I haven't one of your cards, Mr. Shaughnessy," suggested Micky, grinning wickedly.
Shaughnessy vouchsafed him a slight, sneering smile. "I don't think you need it," he retorted, "but I'm glad, I'm sure, that you gave me yours." He passed on and turned the corner.
Micky was a veteran newsgetter, which means that he was also a good detective. Wary as Shaughnessy was, he could not have known that he was being shadowed, though O'Byrn noticed him several times casting apprehensive glances to the rear. He smiled grimly at the implied tribute to his reputation and discreetly kept out of sight. In the meantime he had necessarily dropped some distance behind the boss, though carefully following him as he traversed successive streets. Suddenly, however, he turned sharply at a cross-alley, and when O'Byrn, hurrying his pace, reached there, Shaughnessy was nowhere to be seen.
Micky stood perplexed, cursing softly. He hurried to the end of the alley to Lawrence Street and looked up anddown it, without result. He walked aimlessly here and there about the section, but no glad sight of Shaughnessy rewarded his keen eyes.
After some little time, however, O'Byrn saw a familiar figure crossing Lawrence Street, a block from the point where the alley intersected. The Irishman was instantly alert, for the man was former Alderman Goldberg. "Gad!" muttered Micky, "the woods seem to be full of 'retired' politicians." Gaining the opposite side of the street, Goldberg turned west and walked about two blocks, with O'Byrn discreetly behind, across the way. Suddenly Goldberg disappeared within a doorway. Micky chuckled softly.
"Up over Hogan's, eh?" he muttered. "So that's the trysting place." He must investigate, surely, but not just now. Perhaps there were other birds of the sinister brood to arrive. O'Byrn, with the canny discretion born of long reportorial experience, lurked for the present in a shadowed doorway. In a little while his caution was justified, for there arrived simultaneously at the "trysting place" the lanky Dick Peterson and the rotund Willie Shute, known to Micky for the precious pair of political rascals they were. "That fake convention! Oh, what a bluff!" breathed the Irishman, with a definite admiration in his subdued tones. One could honestly admire a masterly _coup_ like that, nor could he withhold a certain tribute to the ability of the scoundrel responsible for it. Shaughnessy was a genius, burrowing in the dark places; where the searching sunlight would have been fatal.
Micky waited a little longer, but the circle was evidently complete. They would not naturally keep the boss waiting long, for O'Byrn made no doubt that he waswith them. The Irishman was fired with an intense desire to hear that conference. Already he knew that Shaughnessy was there, and matters were proceeding under the same masterly hand as of yore; only it was "the hidden hand" now, and all the more deadly for that reason. O'Byrn was convinced that he ought to be an unnoted auditor of that meeting, though he knew there were difficulties in the way. It was not probable that Hogan neglected precautions against any possible disturbance of these little conferences, for it was a natural supposition that he had his orders to that effect.
However, nothing was to be gained by standing and speculating about it. So Micky, with sundry unspoken prayers for immunity from a broken head, crossed the street and approached the doorway. He opened the door cautiously and slipped inside. By a single gas light, turned religiously low, he saw the white aproned form of a waiter standing at the head of the flight of stairs. In that moment the man started down stairs.
The way to the cafe was through a long, dark passage, at the end of which the dim gas light did not penetrate. In an instant the wily O'Byrn had retreated into this passage, where he flattened against the wall. The sleeve of the waiter brushed his body as that worthy passed on into the cafe. A gust of boisterous talk and tipsy laughter sounded from the saloon as the door was opened. Then it was closed, and Micky, without a second's hesitation, made for the stairs and crept softly up, trusting to luck.
He heard a murmur of voices from the larger of the two rooms that faced a narrow hall, which in turn looked out upon a side street through its two small windows.Between the two rooms there was a narrow passage, terminating in a flight of steep stairs which led down into Hogan's kitchen. These stairs were seldom used. The building, an architectural anomaly in the first place, had been further mangled by the odd ideas of Hogan.
Micky slipped around into this friendly little passageway just as the waiter came up stairs with a loaded tray. Micky heard him knock, enter the room, and shortly return. To his disgust the Irishman failed to hear the waiter's descending footsteps. Evidently he was supposed to stand guard and see that the coast was kept clear.
Micky swore silently. Then he made a discovery which filled him with glee. The light streamed from the all-important room through an aperture high in the wall; evidently a disused stovepipe hole, which Hogan had carelessly forgotten to cover after he put in his furnace. More than this, Micky noted, in the dim light of other gas jets in the hall outside, that directly under this hole stood a small but substantial table, on exceptionally high legs.
To noiselessly gain the top of the table occupied but an instant for the agile Irishman. His eager, freckled face was thrust close to the observatory. He had a swift glimpse of that precious group, the charmed circle complete, and then occurred a thing that froze his blood.
Suddenly Goldberg, Goldberg of the illimitable brow, sprang to his feet with shaking fist and crimsoned face. He extended his arm; the swollen fist resolved itself into a single accusing finger, pointed straight at O'Byrn. Goldberg's little pig eyes shot fire, he glared murderously at the stove pipe hole. "Oh, you spy! you damned spy!" he yelled. Micky waited to hear no more.
He gained the floor at a jump and swung around the corner. The unsuspecting waiter stood directly between him and the front stairs. Micky lowered his head and charged like a lively little bull. The dazed waiter crashed to the floor and Micky gained the bottom of the stairs in three bounds.
In that very instant, however, the sound of a loud commotion, a volley of curses, came from above. Instead of gaining the street, O'Byrn instinctively retreated into the dark passage between the stairs and the cafe, where he crouched and waited. The next moment, with a succession of bumps, some object came thudding down the stairs and reached the bottom with a deep groan. There was a rush of feet on the landing above, eager to follow.
In a flash O'Byrn had sprung forward, turning off the single gas jet, flinging the door wide open. Then, as a second heavy body came tumbling down the stairs, evidently through a stumble in the darkness, O'Byrn stooped, and gathering a limp, senseless form in his arms, gained the street. Dragging his burden, he wheeled into the adjoining alley. He heard swift footsteps in the street. Goldberg hurried by, limping and cursing. He it was who had fallen down stairs.
Micky chuckled. "'Twasn't me they were after, at all," he muttered. Then he bent low, gazing sharply into the white face of his senseless burden. He gave a start of surprise.
It was Slade.
O'BYRN'S eyes glistened. Here were possibilities, to be sure, but the first thing to do was to get out of that quarter, which might be too warm for comfort in a few minutes. Even as the reflection struck him, Micky backed close against the wall, in the deepest shadows, as a man rushed past him through the alley. It was Dick Peterson. The whole gang must be out looking for Slade. To add to the discomfort of the situation, the weather made good its threat of many hours' standing and it began to rain. Slade lay inert, still unconscious from the fall. Micky scratched his head in deep perplexity. He had no intention of leaving the fellow, but what should he do with him?
Fortune was kind. At that moment a cab swung into the alley from Lawrence Street at a leisurely pace. The driver was evidently taking a short cut to more travelled thoroughfares. O'Byrn halted him and invoked his assistance in loading Slade into the vehicle. "My friend's drunk," he laconically explained, to which the cabby grunted a gruff assent.
Slade had recovered his jarred senses by the time the cab arrived at a point near Micky's lodging, and the Irishman prudently stopped the driver, and paying him, dismissedhim. It would never do to leave a clear trail for Shaughnessy's gang, should they chance to stumble upon it at all. He asked the still dazed Slade to wait for him a few minutes in an adjacent drug store while he hurried over to the city hall, which was near at hand, and telephoned the Courier office, informing Mr. Harkins that he had a chance for a future "beat" that would have to be improved at once, and he wouldn't be back. "All right, keep at work on it. We won't need you," Harkins telephoned, and Micky rejoined Slade.
He piloted Slade to his lodgings, took him to his room, lighted his gas heater and the two jets and installed his guest in the big easy chair which the room boasted. He took the rocker himself, drawing it confidentially close to Slade's chair. He then produced cigars, holding a match for Slade to light his weed. "Smoke up, old man," remarked Micky, cordially. "It'll be comfortably warm here in a few minutes. Stretch out and pull yourself together. You got a nasty fall." Slade smiled slightly, without words, and arranged himself luxuriously in the big chair, puffing thoughtfully at his weed. A pleasant glow stole through the room. Micky, also puffing methodically, was silent as his companion, philosophically waiting for the spirit to move. Cautiously watching Slade, he was gratified to see a sullen, smouldering fire in the queer black eyes, ordinarily as indifferent as a Chinaman's. Slade would evidently be in a confidential mood in a few moments, and Micky could well afford to wait.
Not many newspaper men could have expected Nick Slade, accredited heeler for the Shaughnessy gang, to wax confidential, under any circumstances, to a representativeof the press. His very presence at that moment, in the room of a reporter of the Courier, of all papers, was anomalous. But O'Byrn was shrewd. He had learned early that success for the reporter on a daily newspaper depends on his being all things to all men. Tact is the little key that unlocks all doors. A hundred different plans of campaign are needed for a hundred different men, yet every man must be met on a broad and common field of friendliness. Anything short of that curtails the reporter's field of usefulness. One shorter sighted than Micky would perhaps have avoided making Slade's acquaintance in the beginning, on the ground that he was not a respectable person. To be sure he was not. Slade himself would be the last to question the impeachment. Because of this very lack of respectability, Slade's good graces were valuable to Micky, for a large proportion of the news that the public revels in is garnered from the ranks of the non-respectable. There is little in the life of your ordinary, respectable citizen to keep the typesetters busy, for there is nothing sensational in virtue unless it be possessed by a politician. Then it is inexplicable. But the record of the ordinary esteemed citizen can usually be summed up in the horns of life's trilemma: birth, marriage and death, unless, indeed, he excels at golf. The newspapers still devote considerable space to it.
Slade knew the men who made much of the real news of the town, the news with fat head-lines. To be sure, many of them figured in it unwillingly, but that was a minor consideration, for their doings often made and sold extras. Chance had thrown Slade in Micky's way early in the Irishman's career in the town, and the reporter'strained journalistic sense told him that Slade's confidence would be valuable. So it had been. The episode in Goldberg's saloon, when Slade evaded wrath that fell upon the luckless head of O'Byrn, had not ended their acquaintance. Micky had found occasion to do Slade some good turns since then. And now Slade,—from ambuscade, to be sure, but none the less effectively,—was destined to reciprocate tenfold.
Slade had been a heeler for the gang. It was not an important post, affording a pose in the limelight, but that fact had its compensations. Evidently Slade, in trying, perhaps, to fit himself surreptitiously for larger responsibilities, had come to grief. And, as Micky watched him, smoking in the big chair, he noted a fire of sullen resentment kindling in Slade's eyes.
"Say, old man," inquired Slade suddenly, "where'd you pick me up tonight? How'd you happen to connect with me, anyway?"
Micky grinned. "Why, I was up to the same game you were, I guess," he explained. "Shaughnessy passed me tonight, and, though I'd never met him, I couldn't help throwin' the con' into him a little, just for luck. I'd seen some things, you know, and I guess he was next to what I was drivin' at, all right. But he never turned a hair and went on, with me doin' a quick sneak after him. I missed him finally, but some of his gang blew along, and after a while I was up stairs in Hogan's, perched on a table and rubberin' through a hole in the wall. All of a sudden up jumps Goldberg, yellin' something about a spy, and I thought I was copped for fair. I was down stairs in three shakes, and I went through a waiter like a halfback to do it. I was just about tobreathe the open when you bumped along down. You were dead to the world when I dragged you out, I guess, and I kept you out of sight of the gang,—which was looking for you, my boy,—till I got the cab. And here you are. Goldberg's as good a bouncer as his man Mulligan, ain't he?"
"Goldberg?" echoed Slade. "Nit, young feller, he never touched me. They were all grabbin' for me at once, and I shook the whole bunch, just as I did in that session at Goldberg's. I wound around like a gimlet for a minute and I was goin' some when I went through the door. Then," in a tone of deep disgust, "I had to miss my bearin's, of course, and when I brought my hoof down for the first stair I must have hit about the last one, I guess. Anyway, the lights went out." He shook his head mournfully, while O'Byrn chuckled.
"Don't you mind," said he soothingly, "Goldberg got a worse one than you. He bumped along down after you, and afterward he was hoppin' around on one leg lookin' for Nicky, who was just then safe in the arms of Micky. And then along blew the dear old cab. I told the cabby you were drunk, you know."
"Oh, you did, did you?" without enthusiasm. "No such luck this time. Oh, it's all right; it was a good bluff. Now about the rough-house. It was a funny stunt, your happenin' to be there at the same time I was. You've got your nerve with you, all right. As for yours truly, I'd been there so often before, without any trouble, that I must have got careless. Anyway, their talk was interesting and I shoved my face out from behind the sideboard a little too far, and up jumps that bald-headed dog of a Goldberg. And now my goose is cooked."
He sat silent for a few moments, moodily puffing his cigar and scowling blackly. O'Byrn critically watched him, without words. The sullen glow returned to Slade's eyes, his sallow cheeks flushed slightly. Then, with a savage oath, he leaped to his feet, facing the waiting Irishman.
"See here!" he exclaimed fiercely, "I owe you for more than one good turn, and I guess if you hadn't happened to be on deck tonight those dogs would have killed me. You're a good feller and they're a bunch of yellow curs. I've worked for 'em for all I was worth for a long while, done dirty work for 'em, and what have I got? Just promises and a run around the rim, that's all, when I've got enough in me to be helpin' to work the calliope in the inside. And they know it, too,—they know I ain't no fool. Many's the time has Dick Peterson, the rotten liar, said to me: 'Slade, my boy, you're the stuff; we're goin' to take care of you.' Promises, promises to burn! And it's all I've had.
"Well, that's the way it went, while they kept on playin' me for a sucker. Many's the job I've done for Peterson that he didn't have the sand for to do himself. I was always willin'." Micky suppressed a smile at the injured sorrow in Slade's tones. The ex-heeler shrugged his shoulders wearily and resumed his seat. The savagery had departed from his demeanor, replaced by an air of dogged malice.
"Why, that gang of lepers," he resumed impressively, "that bunch of hard-hearted slobs would have dumped me in a minute, after that little scrape me and you was mixed up in at Goldberg's, if it hadn't been for Peterson, and he ain't used me right to any extent since then,either. But if it hadn't been for him I'd have got t'run down then, with never a thought for what I'd done for 'em. You're always pure wool while you can be used, then you're cheap crash; remember that, my boy. I was kin' o' hangin' on by my teeth, though, till tonight. Now it's some other burg for mine, or likely get killed. Well, that's all right, too. They're racin' in other burgs as well as this, and I guess Slade can make a few other little pick-ups, too, just to keep the wolf away." He smiled cunningly.
"But before I take the choo-choos out," he continued, his eyes alive with malice as he bent toward Micky, "there's a score to settle with this lovely old Shaughnessy gang that I'm thinkin' will jar more than one of 'em clear behind the bars. You know this Shaughnessy. He's a deep one, though I notice you was onto him the very day of the convention. Nobody knows what he's drivin' at except his own little ring, the ring that everyone in this buncoed town, barrin' me and you and a mighty few others, thinks has turned him down. Turned him down!" Slade laughed dryly. "Why, he's got every mother's son of 'em by the neck; could jail every cursed one of 'em and crawl out of the muss himself. Oh, I believe he could, he's the devil himself.
"But there's one that's fooled him," exultantly, "and he won't know how much till election day. Sure, they caught me tonight, but do you think for a minute they'll find out that I've been attendin' their devilish little seances for months, unbeknown to 'em? Well, I have. I was at the meetin' that decided this whole funny programme that is givin' Fusion black eyes every minute, and Fusion would have won out in a canter if it hadanyone else than this devil of a Shaughnessy to buck against. I was at that meetin', and I thought I knew a thing or two, but say, feller, the nerve of that proposition got my alley. When Shaughnessy sprung it on the bunch I came near dyin' prematoorly on the spot by wantin' to jump out from behind the sideboard and tellin' Shaughnessy he was a gilt-edged dandy; which he is, if he ain't got no soul. 'But,' says the gang, when he sprung it, 'it won't work. They won't follow us when we talk of throwin' you down. The party'll get hacked to pieces in its own convention.' 'Gentlemen,' says he, 'I never mixed with the hoi-polloi anyway, didn't have to. You have. They don't like me and they do like you. Work this thing slick, as I tell you to, and you'll have 'em all marking time to your music.' And it was so. Remember the convention? The reformers thought it meant a clean bill; the grafters thought it would be a gang more lavish than Shaughnessy had been. Oh, it was a lovely move. And he's on top yet, and they don't know it."
He gave Micky a lingering look. "I'm for gettin' even," he said. "You've been trying to get onto the trail ever since the convention; you've had your suspicions. I saw you myself the other night; walked from Shaughnessy's office back of you, after that old whitewashed graveyard of a nominee for mayor had left there. I was there, just as I'd been at others, though Mr. Shaughnessy never invited me. Of course, they're careful about windows, etc., but I can always make good somehow on a still hunt. What do I know? I know the whole rotten business. The circle always goes into particulars and there have been some beautiful give-and-takes between Shaughnessy and old Graveyard-Whiskers. Whiskersdon't want to stand, not for a minute, you know, but Shaughnessy holds him to the gaff because he's _respectable_." This with a grim laugh. "Shaughnessy got his hooks on him years ago; it's a funny story, I guess. The old man hates to give up living decent; he knows if he's elected it'll be the worst administration of graft this city or any other ever saw. He can't help himself; Shaughnessy's claws are in him."
Micky was bending forward. Imagined possibilities were assuming definite shape. "IsitConsolidated Gas?" he asked, eagerly.
"Consolidated Gas!" Slade echoed. "Why, son, that's only the beginning. It's a long, hard story, a bigger one than you'll want to believe, but I know where you can get the proofs for it. I've been busy for a long time. When I saw the gang wasn't goin' to do anything for me, I began to find out about things on my own hook, and I've got a way of doin' it and I remember what I hear. When this thing was over and Fusion was knocked out, I was goin' to diplomatically introduce myself into a better thing, and then I'd have got it. But that's all changed now. When I remember that those lepers I've done so much for would have liked to murder me tonight, I get hell-hot. I want to see 'em downed now. I'm tired of the rotten town anyway. Now, I put you on, see? You have to do the work, for I've got to keep out of sight.'Twon'tbe safe for me to be floatin' around the old diggin's, for I'm a 'traitor' now, you know, and a 'dirty spy.' But don't you care, it's a rich thing for you. You'll be at the top of the newspaper heap. I'll stay around here on the q. t. long enough to see the fun, and then it's me quietly out. There's an Indian streak in me, I guess,and it's doing double duty just now." His malevolent face looked it.
For the next hour Micky listened to a recital that filled him with gaping amazement at a revelation of municipal iniquity, spreading to the State-house and even beyond, that was undreamed of by the general public. It thrilled him with the lust to secure as big, pulsing, astounding chapters in a vital news story as were ever written. At the close, and when some talk had been devoted to his plan of procedure, Slade arose to depart. "I've got some friends, in a quiet place, that won't give me away," he announced.
Micky accompanied him to the front door. "Good night, Santa Claus," he said, with twinkling eyes, and Slade, somewhat mystified, unobtrusively departed.
WHEN he had seen Slade safely off, Micky returned to the office and reported to Harkins, receiving a late assignment of a night police story which they desired "fixed up" in the style which was peculiarly O'Byrn's own. He contented himself just now with telling Harkins that he had been after something which promised well, but "wasn't ripe enough yet to spring." He felt that the thing was so surprisingly big that it would be better not to mention it officially till he could be sure of being able to secure it. Slade's narrative had opened up thrillingpossibilities; it remained for O'Byrn to secure the proofs before he could venture to say anything, much less to write a single line. This would take hard work and subtlety, but Micky looked forward confidently to the prospect of scoring the most brilliant _coup_ in the history of newspaperdom in that town.
It would have to be done quickly, too, for the time was growing short. The Courier, and the papers which united with it in the support of Fusion, were pounding away on a forlorn hope, thanks to Shaughnessy's masterly checkmate. They were confined to inveighing against the past; which was black enough, to be sure. But the Democracy, having apparently reformed from within, wasevidently preparing for a regenerated future. This called back many who had been temporarily alienated, and Fusion's chances daily grew slimmer. If the proof could be adduced for Slade's revelations, O'Byrn knew that a very simoon of public wrath would at the eleventh hour sweep over Shaughnessy and his crew. His eyes sparkled. The simoon should be forthcoming.
His work kept him late, and the gray dawn was breaking when he walked wearily back to his lodgings and tumbled into bed. It was long ere he could sleep, for the glittering possibilities of that story whirled through his brain. At last, however, he fell into slumber that was disturbed by dreams in which he engaged continuously in fantastic warfare with Shaughnessy, and in which he continually got the worst of it. It was in the nature of a relief to Micky, on awaking about noon, to reflect a little upon the good old adage that dreams go by contraries.
Having had breakfast at an hour even unfashionably late, Micky sauntered over to the office. He moved with unwonted deliberation, for this was to be his night off. He had thought many times of Maisie, who was ill, and had decided that late in the afternoon would be the best time to make the call her brother had suggested. He must kill a little time till then. So he took his way instinctively to the office, being one of those unquiet newspaper spirits that hover uneasily about the hive, even when they have a brief breathing space in which to drone a little.
Now that the first shock of the announcement of the girl's illness was over, Micky viewed the situation with more composure. Her brother had said it was not serious, and Micky knew that the fever to which Maisiehad fallen a victim, and which was quite prevalent in the city, existed in a mild form. She would be out in a few days, but—ah! it was too bad, anyway. Micky sought indignantly to blink away the moisture that treacherously gathered in his eyes.
Reaching the office, he hung around aimlessly for a while, watching the rest of them work. He was more silent than usual and made rather brief replies to their greetings and subsequent comments. It was rather odd to see him mooning in this way, and they conspired together to "jounce" him out of it.
It chanced that a certain old gentleman from a near-by village was prowling about the office that afternoon. He was a relative of the business manager, who had asked the boys up stairs to "tell him about things." As he was of a very curious turn of mind, and very unsophisticated to boot, the boys soon saw they were in for it. They spied Micky, moodily gazing out of the window, and swiftly hatched a plan whereby the venerable visitor was soon introduced to Micky with the understanding that O'Byrn should "put him next."
Micky would not allow his mates, who hovered near in expectation of the fun, the satisfaction of any visible annoyance on his part. He grinned affably at the aged seeker after knowledge, and ceremoniously drew up a chair. "I can tell you all about it easier than I can show you," he explained innocently, then launched forth.
In ten minutes he had told the visitor more about the newspaper business than there really is. "Oh, what a pipe!" enthusiastically whispered the delighted listeners, whose presence Micky minded not at all. He dwelt particularly and pathetically upon the amount of work whichis expected from a newspaper man by his unfeeling editors. Not content with ascribing to the luckless reporter a stint of forty-eight hours' work in every twenty-four, he calmly outlined an imaginary daily programme for himself that staggered even the credulous old gentleman.
"But, young man," said he vaguely, when Micky had finished and sat regarding him with owlish gravity, "what—er—what do you do in your spare time?"
The boys, knowing what weakness was Micky's crowning handicap, were in a position to appreciate the reply, which might have somewhat puzzled the old gentleman.
"My spare time?" mused Micky. "Well, let me see; what do I do in my spare time? Oh, yes," with a relieved expression, "to be sure. In my spare time I hunt for another job." And he walked out, followed by a roar of laughter in which the bewildered old gentleman did not join.
"What's the matter with me? I'm gettin' to be a woman!" muttered Micky a few moments later, as he turned southward from the avenue to go to Maisie's. For Micky had caught himself, to his disgust, bestowing remorseful thought upon the bewildered old gentleman. Why should Micky have "strung" him, why have made him the sport of his mates? Had he not gray hairs, were not his years of eld?
Now ordinarily these considerations would have troubled Micky not at all, and he might readily be pardoned his dismay at evidences of the growth of a crop of nice scruples, entirely new and perplexing. O'Byrn was not used to the subtleties of conscience. It was not so long ago that he could have dismissed the thought of the gaping old fellow with the moment of parting. But nowthe wondering blue eyes, the blank old face, dismayed at the concerted burst of shrill laughter, troubled O'Byrn. It would not have done so in former days; why now?
Why, it was the girl, of course. Micky's freckled face softened, his eyes grew wistful as the explanation occurred to him. Could he not trace, in a thousand and one little ways, a change in his life since she came into it? Assuredly, and for the better. Micky acknowledged frankly to himself that his love for her, and hers for him, was Christianizing him; not in a concrete sense, to be sure, for O'Byrn's thoughts were little concerned with religion, as such. Thrown upon his own resources at an early age, he was essentially a world-product; but now, through this love for a girl,—a new experience for him,—the little Irishman was undergoing a refining process that surprised even himself. No startling change was there, but in a multitude of little ways was shown the gentle influence of this new element in Micky's life. More of tenderness; more potent impulses to kindliness; free-flowing charity toward all. For, in the beatific dawn of love, is a summons for the best in poor, dross-ridden human nature to arise; and, at least temporarily, the happy lover radiates peace and good will toward all mankind.
So Micky, sauntering thoughtfully along, continued superfluously to reflect upon his irreverence to the poor old man,—who probably had not minded it half as much as O'Byrn did,—until the recurrent thoughts of Maisie banished the incident from his mind. He was dancing with her at the Ironworkers' ball, he sat with her in the little parlor, he heard the sweet voice of her—and it was with a distinct sense of bewilderment that he awoke tofind himself halted mechanically before the little house in which she lay.
Advancing doubtfully, half fearfully, he rang the bell. The door opened and Maisie's mother greeted him. No, she said, Maisie was not seriously ill, was quite comfortable. She had been asking for him, would be glad he had come. Indeed, said Mrs. Muldoon, she had been wondering if he would come.
"Come?" echoed Micky, as he followed her in. "Come? Why, I've been thinkin' of her ever since I heard it. Gee! I'm glad she's feelin' so well. Hello, Terence!" He clutched playfully, in a rush of relieved feeling, at the thick thatch of the youngest Muldoon, who stood agape in the doorway, eyeing him. Terence grinned and took to his heels.
Maisie's mother ushered Micky upstairs. A light streamed through a partially opened door at the end of the hall. It was from Maisie's room, and Micky entered slowly, timidly,—as a devotee would approach a shrine.
As it had been through a mist, for the blood rushed tumultuously to his head, he saw her sweet face, radiant with welcome and love for him; saw the little white hands, eagerly outstretched toward him. In an instant they were lost to sight within his trembling own; he bent over her, murmuring broken words, with an odd choke in his throat and big tears gathering in his eyes. He winked them indignantly, strove to clear his burred throat. The attempt ended dismally in a strangling gasp.
The girl laughed tremulously; but the tears, summoned by the sight of the lad's emotion, were very near her own eyes. "Why, Micky!" she said softly. "What's thematter? Why, I'm not really sick, you know; that is, not bad. Only—"
"Yes, little girl, I know," he interrupted, recovering himself. "I didn't mean to go up in the air like that, honest I didn't. But seein' you laid up like this, why, it just hit me where I live, that's all." His lip quivered.
"There, there!" Maisie's mother, good old soul, was patting him on his meagre shoulder. "Of course it hit ye where ye live; in yer warm Irish heart, to be sure. But ye needn't worry, for the doctor says Maisie has a mild case and will be out soon. Well, I'll leave ye now, she's been lookin' for ye. Of course, ye can't stay long, for the doctor says she's got to be quiet. But have a little chat wid her, an' I'm glad ye came up, me boy." And she bustled out, radiating hearty, wholesome, everyday motherliness.
For some moments after she had gone the boy and girl were silent. O'Byrn had drawn a chair close to the small white bed and sat quietly, her hand in his. It was hot, the little hand, and fevered roses bloomed in her soft cheeks. Her beautiful eyes, alight with joy at his coming, gazed happily into his own for a moment, then closed, a little wearily, as she lay content.
Softly pressing the little answering hand, Micky looked dreamily about the room. It spoke eloquently of her, small and modest and instinct with peaceful purity. It was appointed simply in white, from the pretty curtains at the two small windows to dresser and bureau and quaint old-fashioned chairs. On a small stand a lamp burned dimly, for the outer dusk had turned into early autumn night. The tiny clock struck the half-hour.
Her eyes opened. "I'm glad you're here, Micky," shesaid softly. "I've been hopin' you'd come. I hate to lie here all day long. 'Tisn't natural," with a rueful laugh. "But I don't want you to feel bad, Micky. You don't need to, I'm all right."
"I know you are, girl," he answered heartily. "But it struck me all of a heap, somehow, seeing you stretched out like this. I knew you would be laid up, of course; but, don't you know, you can think about a thing all right, but it's different when you actually run up against it."
She laughed gaily. "Does anyone else say things just like you?" she wondered. "That sounds just like your dear old slangy self, Micky. But anyway, you hit the nail on the head, every time."
"And drive it through." He grinned joyfully at her. "Talk some more like that, Maisie," he urged her. "You sound like yourself. Oh, we'll have you on your pins in no time."
"You bet!" She smiled back at him. "Oh, I hadn't ought to complain, I know. Others are having it worse than me. There's poor Julia Orr, worked in the store with me once. She died yesterday—"
"Don't, Maisie!" His voice was unsteady. "Don't speak of dying—anybody! I can't stand it! I hate the thought of it!"
"Why, Micky!" Her blue eyes were solemn. "We all die, don't we? You've known it almost since you were born. You've got to get used to it."
He forced a smile. "Well, we won't talk about it now," he declared. "It's depressing. How'd you like your flowers?"
"Oh!" she cried, in distress. "And I meant to thankyou for 'em when you first came in, and I forgot it. You ought to feel complimented. You drove 'em out of my mind. Bring 'em here."
"Match the room," he commented, as he complied. She smiled assent, and, selecting one of the white roses, raised herself upon her pillows and pinned it upon his coat lapel. "There!" said she, admiring the effect. "You'll do, now."
Again his wide grin cleft his freckled face. "The whole conservatory wouldn't help much," he observed.
"'Tis a homely boy you picked out, Maisie."
"My boy is good enough for me," she returned gently, "as long as he keeps on trying, and does the best he can."
His face grew shadowed. "That's just it, girl," he said, rather sadly. "Someone said once that 'the best is bad enough,' and if that's so, what of my worst?"
"Your worst is for you to fight," answered this young sibyl. "Your worst is never as bad as it seems to you, just as long as you keep on fightin' it. And you will, Micky, won't you?" Her arms were stretched impulsively toward him.
He caught her hands, his eyes burning. "Till hell freezes over!" he told her, grimly. "Oh, excuse me!" he added confusedly. "I didn't mean—"
"Never mind, Micky, never mind!" she told him, with a laugh in her eyes. "I know how you feel."
"Yes, I guess you do!" he muttered. "If I could only blot out some things—if I'd been different from the beginning—if I'd had some chance—if I amounted to something now—ah! dreams—dreams!"
"Keep on dreaming, Micky," she said softly. "They'lltake you on the right road—you're on it now—and they'll come true!"
There was a hesitant step outside. He arose, bending and taking her in his arms.
"I hope—I guess—I'm on the right road," he breathed. "And you've shown me the way, little girl; you have, for fair. Well, I must be going, I hear your mother outside. I've stayed too long now; I mustn't tire you. Well, good night, dear."
He withdrew, to walk home with the dear shrined image of her in his swelling heart; with her tender words of faith in him to summon a maze of happy dreams.
THE succeeding fortnight found the Fusionists much exercised in mind. Do what they could, the trend was steadily, and with gathering impetus, the other way; the way of the devil, as the Fusion leaders firmly believed, but they could not induce the balance of voting power to think likewise. With the election now but a few days off, the chances for the Reform ticket looked hopeless.
"Oh!" groaned Colonel Westlake, in a conversation with the Courier's managing editor one evening, "if only we could nail 'em somewhere! But there was never a time when everything was locked up as it is now. You can't get anything. We've whaled all the chaff out of the old straw, but it doesn't do any good. It's a different proposition from what it looked to be in the first place, isn't it? I'm convinced, though, that if we could only dig up what's beneath the surface on this deal, we'd win out yet, late as it is. It's a forlorn hope, but everybody must keep his eyes open, that's all. I'll tell you one thing, the man that happened to turn the trick would have no occasion to regret it, and don't you forget it!"
Unknown to the Colonel, as it was unknown also to the managing editor and to Harkins, the man who was to turn the trick was steadily forging ahead in the process.Micky, however, had kept his own counsel. This was not a matter to be bawled from the house-tops, or even whispered in secret, until the moment came in which he might confidently warn his superiors to prepare to exploit the story. The task was one to be prosecuted with infinite caution, and he was pursuing it alone. It would be time to speak of it when he had it so flanked by facts, and fortified by proof, that the town should read it aghast and rally at the eleventh hour to save itself.
Meanwhile O'Byrn was not idle. He had already satisfied himself, by actual proof, of the value of Slade's tips. The time spent by that worthy in subterranean research had evidently been well expended. There was, clinched and ready for publication, much that was startling. The information had been gained, moreover, from various sources involving difficulties in handling, yet Micky had proceeded thus far without causing a ripple of uneasiness in the turbid waters, and the knaves whose undoing he sought were in blissful ignorance of the formidable net that was closing about them. The layman will wonder how this could be, but the trained newspaper man will readily understand how a "star" worker like O'Byrn, gifted with far more than ordinary subtlety, could accomplish a result which a good reporter, in less degree perhaps, has frequently to negotiate in his arduous calling.
The crowning fact, however, must be nailed home before the Irishman could spring his story; the fact to which all other things led and upon which they were dependent. The sublimely audacious hoax of the Democratic convention, the spectacle of hordes of unconscious puppets of Shaughnessy in the background, the exposure of masterly effrontery hitherto unparalleled inthe history of political bossism; these were the culminating, dramatic features of the story, without which it would be as Samson shorn of power. To use these features, and invest them with facts to insure public credence, a difficult proposition presented itself. Judge Boynton must be revealed to the people as he had been, and, no matter how unwillingly, in case of his election would have to be again; an abject tool of Shaughnessy's ring.
Slade and O'Byrn both knew that the Democratic candidate for the mayoralty was running unwillingly; that he revolted from the ignoble part he would be forced to play. They knew also that he was compelled to "stand the gaff," as Slade expressed it, through some sinister, secret hold which Shaughnessy had upon him. But what was this hold? Whatever it was, upon its revelation rested the whole superstructure of O'Byrn's story. The Democratic party had nominated for the mayoralty a jurist of high reputation, during his years upon the bench, and in his retirement the recipient of general public esteem. Micky realized fully that an attack, through mere inference of wrong-doing, upon such a man, would be not only libelous but abortive in its effect upon the public. The people, judging from externals, looked upon the candidate as a true, untrammeled reformer. Micky knew that he was,—perhaps originally by choice and now assuredly of necessity,—a servile tool of the most corrupt political ring in the country; but the public statement of the Irishman to that effect would have to be backed up by incontrovertible proof.
It was truly a formidable difficulty, and one thatO'Byrn chafed under as the swift days passed, bringing the election uncomfortably close, with not an effective blow as yet to stay the victorious progress of the "regenerated" Democracy. Micky had exerted himself to the utmost, continuously yet cautiously, in the attempt to possess himself, by hook or crook, of that hidden secret which was the still unlocated fibre of his story; but without success. With everything else practically "clinched," was he to fail with the goal in sight?
Micky returned from a brief call at Maisie's one evening. It happened to be his night off, and he repaired to his room relieved in mind. He had found Maisie sitting with the family, with only unaccustomed pallor and thinness to bespeak her recent illness. O'Byrn was very tired, as he had devoted the day to still-hunting on the big story, for which purpose he had risen early after a mere snatch of sleep. Now from thought of Maisie, he passed to puzzling reflections over the story, for still the maddening kernel of it all eluded him.
Suddenly a cautious knock sounded at his door, as he sat with his red head sunk disconsolately between his freckled hands. Ere he could rise, the portal opened to admit Slade.
"Good!" ejaculated the ex-heeler. "Glad I've found you. Sent a kid up to the office for you, but he said you was off tonight. So I chanced it up here, sneaking along in the shade. I'm not gettin' under any electric lamps now," with a grim chuckle. "But say, get your hat 'nd coat. There's a little confab on tonight, 'nd we've missed too much of it already."
Micky was already getting into his overcoat. "What's up?" he inquired laconically, the old flame kindling inhis eyes. He reached for his hat and extinguished his gas heater. Slade fully appreciated the crowning difficulty Micky had to deal with, and the Irishman knew the little tout was not there for any idle purpose.
"Shaughnessy 'nd His Whiskers are chewin' the rag again," explained Slade, as they went down stairs. "They're in Shaughnessy's office, as usual. Been there some time; hope we ain't too late. I know what you're after. Can't never tell, maybe they'll spit up somethin' worth while."
Micky knew Slade well enough to neglect needless inquiry as to how they were to manage to hear this private conversation. He had ample evidence of the former heeler's eavesdropping powers, and followed him in perfect confidence to the conference.
Gaining the street on which Shaughnessy's establishment was located, they proceeded cautiously, looking about to be sure the coast was clear. The reflection of a light gleamed dully behind the closely curtained office windows. "They're here yet," murmured Slade.
The street was deserted. With a warning gesture, Slade made his way noiselessly through a little driveway toward the rear of the building, Micky following. Slade paused a moment. O'Byrn heard him chuckle in the darkness.
"A man is always one kind of a fool," he whispered, "and most of us are most kinds. Shaughnessy, he's just one kind, but it's bad. He won't hire a night watchman. Do you mind coal dust?"
"Nit!" replied Micky.
"Then follow me," said Slade, "and mind you don't make any noise about it, either." He stooped, fumblingat a cellar window. "There's a broken pane here," he whispered, "but they're always careful to keep the casing hooked." He chuckled as he pushed the window inward and cautiously thrust the hook into the staple in the timber beyond. He then prepared to descend.
"But the coal, won't it rattle?" asked Micky apprehensively, as he drew near the window in readiness to follow Slade down.
"No," grinned the little tout. "They don't use this bin no more, but they used to. You'll know when you wash up afterwards. Well, come on, and be quiet." He disappeared.
Micky bent to follow him. Gingerly insinuating himself backward through the window, his legs were grasped from below and Slade piloted him easily to the floor. "Good!" breathed the guide. "Now come along, and just shuffle, or you'll be falling over things. I'll keep you in the open. The cellar's full of things." Manifestly Slade had been there before.
The obedient Micky "shuffled" cautiously along and the two proceeded without mishap to a flight of stairs, which they ascended cautiously. It was pitch dark. In Micky's strained ears the scuttling of a rat, across the floor beneath them, sounded unnaturally loud.
"Wait a minute," whispered Slade, as they gained the top. "Sometimes this door is locked and sometimes it ain't. If it is, I've got a key."
It was not, and the eavesdroppers stepped softly out into the big wareroom. Here showed the dim outlines of innumerable casks and cases, for the radiance of some distant electric lights struggled through the small, old-fashioned windows. A subdued sound of voices camefrom the office at the upper end of the room. Micky turned involuntarily in that direction.
"Wait a minute," whispered Slade, and tiptoed back toward the rear, O'Byrn following. Slade bent over a small cask, duly spigoted and with a couple of small glasses setting near it. "All the comforts of home," he grinned. He drew a couple of generous draughts and held one of the glasses toward Micky. "I know where they keep everything," he whispered, with a leer.
The fiery aroma was in Micky's nostrils. He hesitated, but drew back. "I guess not—" he began doubtfully.
"Take it, man," urged Slade. "A little whisky won't hurt you. Besides, it's a joke. Here's hopin' worse luck to Shaughnessy in his own stuff." Micky grinned, faltered a moment, and then lightly touched glasses with Slade and downed the liquor.
"Tastes like another," whispered Slade,andproceeded to fill up the glasses again. Micky drank without further protest. The pleasant glow at his stomach infused itself into his veins, mounted benignly toward his brain. Always abnormally quick to respond to the spur of stimulants, he was conscious almost instantly of added zest for the adventure.
"Come on and be mighty quiet," murmured Slade, and the pair made their way on tiptoe toward the office. Slade approached the door, the upper part of which enclosed a wide glass, behind which hung a screening yellow shade. There was a narrow space below it, however, through which a view of the interior could be obtained, the shade being a little too short to quite reach the length of the glass. Through an open transomoverhead the speech of those inside was clearly audible.
The eavesdroppers bent, looking into the office. Shaughnessy sat in his big leather chair, indolently puffing a black cigar, dreamily gazing toward the ceiling. Near him, in an attitude of deep dejection, sat Judge Boynton. The venerable candidate was speaking, while the boss might have been a thousand miles away. But the watchers knew that the jurist had the honor of his chief's undivided attention. It was a secret of Shaughnessy's success, the veil of icy indifference that hid so potently the dark workings of his own mind while he probed unerringly into the recesses of others.
"Why did you drag me in again?" the Judge was inquiring. "Were there not others; less tired, more calloused? For I was never calloused. You got your talons into me by a trick!" He clenched impotent hands. "I did—as I had to—for years, and, when the time came, I went thankfully enough into retirement. I thought I had done with you forever. And now—isn't the memory of the past enough without such a future as you have marked out for me—far worse than the past? It's not to be borne!"
Shaughnessy lowered his eyes. His cold, snaky gaze met the other's fairly. "You talk like an old woman," he sneered. "You sound like a paper-covered novel. I got hold of you by a trick, eh? Now you know how I got you, well enough. I put out bait that always lands supposedly honest men, like yourself, and you swallowed it, hook and all, just like a lot of other respectable suckers before you, and since. Well, what are you kicking about? You put yourself where you had to be useful to me, didn't you? Well, it's paid you, hasn'tit? And this little programme we've got mapped out for the next two years, it's going to pay you, and all of us, so we can retire for good." He chuckled insolently.
The old man's lips set in a grim line. "I'm praying that I may be defeated," he said, "but if not, I'll be mayor of this town. I may—"
Shaughnessy straightened in his chair. His mouth grew repellently cruel, his eyes assumed the fixed glare of a serpent about to strike. "Now see here!" He spat out the words like venom. "I'll be elected next week, and I'll be mayor these two years coming. You're a decoy just now, and nothing more; but after the first of January you'll be a live duck, with a string on you, that's all. You must be getting into your second childhood to play the damn fool as you have been playing it ever since this thing started. You can't squeal, you can't afford to. If you ever did, it would be all up with me and a lot of others—but you'd go with us, so help me God! Now just you cast your eye on this bunch of teasers for a minute, and get sensible!" Reaching into a secret compartment of his desk he slapped down a bundle of documents.
The gray discouragement crept back into the old man's face. Shaughnessy smiled cruelly. Outside the office O'Byrn eagerly clutched Slade's arm. "We've got to have them!" he breathed in the tout's ear. "After they go," returned Slade.
The next moment brought dismay to the watchers. "I think I'll deposit these elsewhere," observed Shaughnessy casually, with a glance toward the badgered Judge."I don't think they're safe here." He slipped them into an inner pocket of his coat.
Micky's blank stare of dismay was instantly succeeded by a sudden inspiration, a plan daring but desperate. He plucked at Slade's sleeve, drawing him away from the window. "He mustn't leave here with 'em," he whispered, and proceeded briefly to unfold his plan. Slade, who was of kin with O'Byrn in recklessness, was enthusiastic.
"All right if they stay long enough," he muttered. "Let's take a look." A glance through the glass showed the two occupants of the office, with chairs close together, conversing in low tones. Shaughnessy was evidently elaborating his programme.
"You stay here and keep watch," whispered Slade. "I can get over and back quick. There's a drug store two blocks away, and I've got an awful toothache," with a nudge. "Matches? No, I can get around here like a cat, and as still." He glided silently away. Micky resumed his watch at the office door.
The moments dragged by slowly. Micky grew impatient. What if Slade should return too late? And now the Judge was rising, donning his coat and hat. Shaughnessy was seeing him to the door; it opened—he was gone. Micky strained his ears, no sounds of a returning Slade.
Shaughnessy walked leisurely to his desk. Ah! it was all right, he was going to sit down. But no, he closed the lid of his desk; donned his hat, took down his coat from the hook, was leisurely getting into it.
Then Micky with difficulty repressed a startled cry.Out of nowhere, without a sound in the intense stillness, Slade materialized from darkness at his side.
"Quick!" gasped Micky, "he's going!" But for Slade's restraining hand he would have thrown himself bodily against the door.
"Hold on! do you want him to see us?" he whispered savagely. "Here! quick, put this on." He thrust an object into Micky's hand. "It's a mask," he explained, adjusting one of his own. "Gettin' 'em is what kept me."
The masks were of the grotesque little variety affected alike by house breakers and masqueraders. Micky learned afterward that Slade had a dubious friend in the vicinity who possessed such conveniences. After leaving the office he had bethought himself of the awkwardness of Shaughnessy's recognizing them in the prospective encounter. Slade had a long head.
The plotters took another look at the interior. Shaughnessy was standing with his back to them, leisurely selecting a cigar from his case, preparatory to going. "Now for it!" whispered Slade, and the two, looking like two simon-pure burglars, crept forward. Slade's hand fell upon the handle of the office door. Contrary to his expectations, it was unlocked. He nudged Micky, immediately behind, to impose caution, and softly opened the door.
The two passed inside as stealthily as Indians and crept slowly toward the unsuspecting Shaughnessy. Even in the silence his keen ear caught some sound—perhaps the repressed breathing of his assailants. At all events, he half-turned. As he did so, however, Micky leaped forward and pinioned his arms from the rear. The wiryIrishman drew the struggling boss backward, throwing him into the chair he had lately vacated and holding him there helpless. With a lithe spring, like a cat's, Slade was at his side, his hand over Shaughnessy's mouth, stifling a gurgling outcry in its infancy. With the free hand he applied a saturated handkerchief to the struggling man's face and held it there. The deathly odor of chloroform filled the air.
After a little, Slade removed the handkerchief. "I guess he'll do," he muttered. O'Byrn thrust his hand into the inner pocket of the boss' coat and extracted the papers, carefully transferring them to his own. With an afterthought, he also possessed himself of the unconscious man's keys.
He grinned. "It's us out through the front door," he said. "I'll keep the keys. He needs exercise, this fellow. He can get it chasin' round, when they let him out tomorrow, gettin' some more made."
They surveyed the inert boss, huddled horribly in his chair, his eyes closed in his ghastly face. "God!" breathed Micky, a creeping chill in his spine, "he looks like a corpse! Do you suppose you gave him too much?"
"Naw!" returned Slade, disgustedly. "Was I born yesterday? It's only his damned eyes. When they're shut, he looks like a dead one, for fair. Let's get out before he has us countin' our fingers."
They opened the door cautiously and looked out. The coast was clear. Extinguishing the lights in the office, they emerged, locked the door and departed. Huddled in the darkness sat Shaughnessy, his chin sunk on hisbreast, his hands clenched convulsively upon the arms of his chair.
* * * * * * * *
A little later, Micky, with crimsoned face and eyes unnaturally bright, approached Harkins' desk in the Courier office. He bent confidentially toward his chief with an electrifying communication.
"Get ready," said Micky, "for the damnedest feature story for the next issue that was ever sprung in this town. Yes sir, absolutely the damnedest. The lines are all out. I'm due for about five hours' sleep, and then I'll begin to gather 'em in, and there'll be a bouquet of suckers on every hook. I've got a lot of finishin' touches to get tomorrow, and I'll be able to begin grindin' it out early in the evenin', not before. Yes, I'll have it all. What is it? It's a slaughter, slaughter of the gang. Shaughnessy'll be wearin' stripes unless he ducks, and a lot more with him, includin' Old Whiskers Boynton. Not in time? Election only three days off? Wait till you read the story! Wait till the town reads it! They'll all be champin' the bit of Fusion and frothin' at the mouth. I've been at this for weeks, but the main stuffin' I only got tonight. It comes late, but it's a winner, and Shaughnessy, he's a dead one!"