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Updated: May 2, 2025
Assigned to work as Brennan's "leg man," the newspaper term for understudy, John became acquainted with the men in Los Angeles who appear almost daily in the news.
These words, P. Q. knew, would get back to Brennan, who would cross-examine the reporter to get every word of the city editor's commendation. Yet between them, except for rare occasions when they went out to lunch together, there was a "strictly business" attitude that was deceiving. Brennan's loyalty to P. Q. was only rivaled by the city editor's covert admiration for him as a reporter.
"Damn it, Moorehouse," he roared, fairly beside himself, "the charge was too heavy; it overshot." "Are you much hurt?" panted Caton. "Merely pricked the skin." Then Brennan's angry voice rang out once more. "I demand another shot," he insisted loudly. "I demand it, I tell you, Moorehouse. This settles nothing, and I will not be balked just because you don't know enough to load a gun."
Don't ever, no matter how friendly he is, get familiar with one of them. It's ruinous." Gradually John learned Brennan's story. An Englishman by birth and a university man, Brennan was a rancher in Alberta for a year before he joined the Royal Northwest Mounted Police. He had been everywhere and seen everything.
Why, you needn't tell me I've had my mind made up ever since the day he broke the temper of Terry Brennan's Inniskillen chestnut, and won the gold cup with her afterwards.
Lacy flung up his arms, and backed down out of view, but just beyond where he had stood, a gun barked from out the chaparral and a bullet crashed against the rock scarcely a foot from Brennan's head. The latter answered it so promptly the two reports sounded almost as one, and then rolled back into shelter, laughing as though the whole affair was a joke.
Instead, he saw Brennan's eyes narrow and his jaw set. Whether the expression of anger and determination that came over Brennan's face was caused by indignation of Gibson's duplicity or by friendship for Consuello, whom Brennan had never seen, John did not know, but a thrill of encouragement swept through him as he realized that he was not alone in the fight to save her.
Paul Brennan kept up a running chatter of pleasantries, of promises and plans for their future, and just enough grief to make it sound honest. Had Paul Brennan actually been as honest as his honeyed tones said he was, no one could have continued to accuse him. But no one is more difficult to fool than a child even a normal child. Paul Brennan's protestations simply made Jimmy Holden bitter.
Dinner was served at eight, the menu selected by Jimmy Holden with the exception of the birthday cake and its five proud little candles which came as an anticipated surprise from his "Uncle" Paul Brennan. After dinner, they listened to some music chosen by the boy, and the evening wound up with three rubbers of bridge. The boy won. They left Paul Brennan's apartment just after eleven o'clock.
"Suppose we set it for the evening of the day I'm elected mayor," said Gibson, smiling. Over Gibson's shoulder John saw Brennan drop his right eyelid in a slow wink. "That suits me," he replied. As Gibson turned toward his desk John returned Brennan's wink. "Now, boys, let's get down to business," Gibson said as he turned back to face them, a paper in his hand. "Here's the story.
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