CRIED A SENSATION.
In Chicago was a sheet—it could not be called a newspaper and assuredly was not a publication—that was rarely seen until late at night, and which always appeared to have been smuggled across the border-line of darkness into the light of the street lamps. Ragged boys, carrying this sheet, hung about the theaters and cried a sensation when the play was done. Their aim was to catch strangers, and to turn fiercely upon their importunity was not so effective as simply to say, "I live here."
One night, as Henry and Ellen came out of a theater, they heard these ragged boys shouting the names of Witherspoon and Brooks.
"Gracious," said Ellen, with sudden weight on Henry's arm, "what does that mean?"
"It's nothing but a fake," he answered.
"But get a paper and see; won't you?"
"Yes, as soon as I can."
They were so crowd-pressed that it was some time before they could reach one of the boys; and when they did, Ellen snatched a paper and attempted to read it by the light of the carriage lamp.
"Wait until we get home," he said. "I tell you it amounts to nothing."
"No, we will go to a restaurant," she replied.
The sensation was a half column of frightening head on a few inches of smeared body. It declared that recent developments pointed to the fact that Witherspoon and Brooks knew more concerning the whereabouts of Dave Kittymunks than either of them cared to tell. It was known that old Colton's extreme conservatism had been regarded as an obstruction, and that while they might not actually have figured in the murder, yet they were known to be pleased at the result, that the large reward was all a "bluff," and that it was to their interest to aid the escape of Kittymunks.
Before breakfast the next morning Brooks was at Witherspoon's house. A "friend" had called his attention to the article. Had it appeared in one of the reputable journals instead of in this fly-by-night smircher of the characters of men, a suit for criminal libel would have been brought, but to give countenance to this slander was to circulate it; and therefore the two men were resolved not to permit the infamy to place them under the contribution of a moment's worry.
"The character of a successful man is a target to be shot at by the envious," said Witherspoon. He was pacing the room, and anger had hardened his step. "A target to be shot at," he repeated, "and the shots are free."
"I didn't know what to do," Brooks replied. He stood on the hearth-rug with his hands behind him. "I was so worried that I couldn't sleep after I saw the thing late last night; and my wife was crying when I left home."
"Infamous scoundrels!" Witherspoon muttered.
"I didn't think anything could be done," Brooke continued, "but I thought it best to see you at once."
"Of course," said Witherspoon.
"But, after all, don't you think we ought to have those wretches locked up?" Brooke asked.
"Yes," Witherspoon answered, "and we ought to have them hanged, but we might as well set out to look for Kittymunks. Ten chances to one they are not here at all; the thing might have been printed in a town three hundred miles from here."
"Yes, that's so," Brooks admitted; and addressing Henry, who stood at a window, gazing out, he added: "What do you think about it?"
Henry did not heed the question, so forgetfully was he gazing, and Brooks repeated it.
"If you have decided not to worry," Henry answered, "it is better not to trouble yourselves at all. I doubt whether you could ever find the publishers of the paper."
"You are right," Brooks agreed.
"Character used to be regarded as something at least half way sacred," said Witherspoon, "but now, like an old plug hat, it is kicked about the streets. And yet we boast of our freedom. Freedom, indeed! So would it be freedom to sit at a window and shoot men as they pass. I swear to God that I never had as much trouble and worry as I've had lately. Everything goes wrong. What about Jordway & Co., of Aurora?"
"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Brooks answered. "Jordway has killed himself, and the affairs of the firm are in a hopeless tangle."
"Of coarse," Witherspoon replied, "and we'll never get a cent."
"I'm afraid not, sir. I cautioned you against them, you remember."
"Never saw anything like it," Witherspoon declared, not recalling the caution that Brooks had advised, or not caring to acknowledge it.
"Oh, everything may come out all right. Pardon me, Mr. Witherspoon, but I think you need rest"
"There is no rest," Witherspoon replied.
"And yet," said Henry, turning from the window, "you took me to task for saying that I sometimes felt there was nothing in the entire scheme of life."
"For saying it at your age, yes. You have but just begun to try life and have no right to condemn it."
"I didn't condemn it without a hearing. Isn't there something wrong when the poor are wretched and the rich are miserable?"
"Nonsense," said Witherspoon.
"Oh, but that's no argument."
"Isn't it? Well, then there shall be none."
"I must be getting back," said Brooks.
"Won't you stay to breakfast?" Witherspoon asked. "It will be ready in a few minutes. Hum"—looking at his watch—"ought to have been ready long ago. Everything goes wrong. Can't even get anything to eat. I'll swear I never saw the like."
"I'm much obliged, but I can't stay," Brooks answered.
"Well, I suppose I shall be down to the store some time to-day. If anybody calls to see me, just say that I am at home, standing round begging for something to eat. Good morning."
Henry laughed, and the merchant gave him a strained look. For a moment the millionaire bore a striking likeness to old Andrew, at the time when he declared that the devil had gone wrong. The young man sought to soothe him when Brooks was gone; he apologized for laughing; he said that he keenly felt that there was cause for worry, but that the picture of a Chicago merchant standing about at home begging for his breakfast, while important business awaited him at the store, was enough to crack the thickest crust of solemnity. The merchant's dignity was soon brought back; never was it far beyond his reach. At breakfast he was severe with silence.
Over and over again during the day Henry repeated Richmond's words, "Whom does it benefit" and these words went to bed with him, and as though restless, they turned and tossed themselves upon his mind throughout the night, and like children, they clamored to be taken up at early morning, to be dressed in the many colors of supposition.