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John spread the sheet against the window-pane. The light behind brought out the letters distinctly. He scarcely reached the final line when he spun round, his face mobile with eagerness. "Where did this come from?" "Indirectly, out of McQuade's waste-basket." "Morrissy and McQuade; both of them! Oh, you have done me a service, Dick." "But it can not be used, John.
Bennington was not a coward; he would not sell to another; he would not shirk the task laid out for his hand. Unionism, such as it stood, must receive a violent lesson. And McQuade? "Damn him!" he muttered, his fingers knotting. Education subdues or obliterates the best of fighting in the coward only.
The brave man is always masculine in these crises, and he will fight with his bare hands when reason and intelligence fail. A great longing rose up in Bennington's heart to have it out physically with McQuade. To feel that gross bulk under his knees, to sink his fingers into that brawny throat! The men, eying him covertly, saw his arms go outward and his hands open and shut convulsively.
The two of you ought to bring the hands to their senses. If we can line up the Bennington steel-mills, others will fall in. Bennington owns the shops, but our friend McQuade owns the men who work there. Take a week to think it over; I can rely on your absolute secrecy." "I shall be silent for half a dozen reasons," Warrington replied. "But I shan't keep you waiting a week.
"It regards some literary compositions of yours to which I have taken exception." "Compositions?" "Yes. Two anonymous letters. But before we discuss them we'll wait for our friend Bolles." McQuade signified that this was agreeable to him. All the same, he glanced uneasily at the man near the door. Bennington had not made the slightest sound after taking his chair.
"Ol' King Cole was a merry ol' soul," hummed McQuade, lightly. "An' a merry ol' soul was he! was he!" thundered the chorus, deep-toned and strong. "He had a wife for every toe, an' some toes counted three!" "Listen!" cried Meade, holding up his hand. "An' every wife had sixteen dogs, an' every dog a flea!" shouted a voice from the besiegers, followed by a roar of laughter.
He had no desire to meet McQuade. Their ways were widely separated and reached nothing in common. But he readily recognized the fact that McQuade was not a man such as one might heedlessly antagonize. What could the politician want of the literary man? McQuade dabbled in racing horses; perhaps he had a horse to sell. In that event, they would meet on common ground.
"One question more. Did McQuade write that letter?" "No." He picked up his hat. "So much for my dreams! Deny it? Deny calumny of the anonymous order? No! Defend myself against such a lie? No!" He walked from the room, his head erect. He did not turn to look at her again. The hall door closed. He was gone. Tragedy was abroad that day, crossing and recrossing Williams Street.
"Well, all we know is that he has them," snapped Morrissy. "Then he has gone directly to the governor." "The governor?" McQuade and Morrissy looked at each other blankly. "He has that prerogative," said Donnelly. "But he wouldn't dare!" "Oh, yes, he would. It's his last term; he is without further political ambition; he can act as he pleases, in the face of public condemnation.
He controls congressmen, state senators and assemblymen, and the majority of the Common Council is his, body and soul. Only recently he gave the traction company a new right of way. Not a penny went into the city's purse. And you know these street-railways; they never pay their taxes. A franchise for ninety-nine years; think of it!" "Why don't you men wake up and oust McQuade?
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