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She crushed her hands together wildly. "Tell John," said Patty sensibly. "John? He would thresh McQuade within an inch of his life." "Tell Warrington, then." "He would do the same as John. But what can the wretch have found? God knows, Patty, I have always been a good, true woman. ... Think of that man's telephoning me!" Patty ran to her side and flung her arms about her brother's wife.
"But how is it that I see you and Mr. Bennington together?" evilly. "We'll come to that presently. I had always given you credit for being as astute as you were underhanded and treacherous." "Thanks." McQuade took a cigar from his pocket and fumbled around in his vest for a match. "But," Warrington added, "I am pained to reverse my opinion. You are a fool as well as a blackleg."
He unfolded the carbon sheet and began to read. McQuade saw Medusa's head, little versed as he was in mythology. He lowered his cigar. The blood in his face gradually receded. "'In two sums of five hundred each," Warrington went on. Morrissy, who suddenly saw visions of bars and stripes, made a quick, desperate spring. Warrington struck him with full force on the side of the head.
He saw that if Warrington left this way the impression would not be favorable to the boss contractor. So he made haste to approach Warrington. "Hold on there, Warrington. I apologize for kicking your dog. I admit I was excited; and my dog was getting licked. I am sorry." "All right, Mr. McQuade," said Warrington, who would have preferred leaving, minus any apology.
When he reached the last paragraph he returned to the first and read the article through again. He laid it down and faced his employer. "Mr. McQuade, the Call and the Times are the only papers in town that pay dividends. The Times as it stands to-day is a good, legitimate business investment. Do you want the circulation to drop ten thousand and the big advertisers to cancel their contracts?"
Morrissy threw aside his papers and drew his chair to the table. McQuade closed the door and sat down. "You got my letter?" he began, wiping his forehead. Morrissy nodded. "Well?" "Well, the boys will go out Monday morning. A committee will wait on Bennington in the morning. He won't back down and discharge the English inventor, so it's a sure thing they'll walk out, every mother's son of them."
"Five hundred now, and five hundred on Monday. I can see him sending a check. It will be bills. Bah! I should have called out the boys anyhow." McQuade hurried home. He had another appointment, vastly more important than the one he had just kept. Bolles had returned from New York. It was easy enough to buy a labor union, but it was a different matter to ruin a man of Warrington's note.
"He will if he knows which side his bread is buttered on," contemptuously. The two went up to McQuade's office. It was deserted. "The girl's gone this afternoon," said McQuade, "but I can handle the typewriter myself." "All I've got to say is that I mailed you a receipt. What do you want it for?" with a final protest. "I've got an idea in my head, Morrissy. I want that receipt.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Warrington," said McQuade, pointing toward a chair. He did not offer his hand; something told him not to make that mistake. From under the desk McQuade's dog emerged, stiff and bristling. On his side, Jove stood squarely on his legs, head on, as they say, his lips writhing and quivering with rage. Warrington touched the chair that had been offered him. Jove begged.
"McQuade, you wrote that." "Me? You're crazy!" "Not at all. Let me advise you. The next time you put your hand to anonymous letters, examine the type of your machine. There may be some bad letter." "I don't know what you're driving at," McQuade declared. "I see that I must read this, then, to convince you." Warrington stood up, his back toward Bennington.
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